Chapter 9
Lord and Lady Rothermere’s ball was always an excellent affair, if a little dampened tonight by the chill that had crept in to spoil what had been a fine summer’s day.
Julian stepped inside with relief, glad of the warmth that drove off the cold threatening to nip at his fingers, and handed his hat and coat to the waiting footman.
I wonder if she will be here this evening.
The thought surprised him. Even as he greeted his host, his mind lingered on Miss Trent and their walk that afternoon. Her brown eyes gave away every thought that crossed her — a most expressive young lady, whether she knew it or not.
The ballroom opened before him in light and sound, the chandeliers scattering their glow, the chalked floor already half ruined by the dancers.
Ladies in silk moved through the cotillion, conversation and laughter rose all around, and gentlemen gathered in knots to speak of the young ladies present before going to claim their dances.
Julian drew a long breath and let it go, and a smile came to him unbidden.
Somehow, in winning Miss Trent’s agreement to work alongside him, he felt more at ease, more able to enjoy the evening.
The restlessness was gone. In its place was a clear path forward, one he was certain would lead to understanding, however long it took.
“Brother. There you are.” Brookmire clapped him on the back, grinned, and pressed a glass of brandy into his hand before lifting another from a passing tray. “You look — ” He tilted his head, considering him. “More like yourself, I think. Has something happened with Miss Trent?”
“In a way.” Julian sipped his brandy. “Not as you might suppose. She accepts nothing of what is written in that letter.”
Brookmire frowned. “You were already convinced it was a falsehood. So this only confirms it.”
“It does.”
Brookmire glanced about the room and let out a heavy breath. “Then how do matters stand between you? Will you simply accept that the house is hers, and let that be the end of it? Our cousin’s wishes, however altered, left as they are?”
Julian met his brother’s eyes, and found the question, asked without real heat, stirred an unexpected irritation in him.
It was not that Brookmire had no right to ask.
It was the thing beneath it: that he thought Julian a fool to trust her — that Miss Trent had perhaps worked upon him as she was said to have worked upon Lady Warrington.
“I believe she speaks the truth when she says she does not understand why our cousin did this,” he said slowly, wanting to be clear.
“I do not believe the letter. Speaking with her only confirmed it.”
His brother’s scowl eased a fraction. “You speak with great certainty.”
“She shared with me the letter Lady Warrington wrote to her.” Julian chose not to add that it had been spoken rather than shown.
“But it is more than certainty. It is conviction. I have no wish to think ill of her, whatever the page implies. Indeed, I think far worse of whoever set pen to it than I do of Miss Trent.” He looked back at his brother.
“I will not join the rest of society in whispering — in making an ugly story of something that is, in its own way, rather beautiful.”
Brookmire’s brows climbed to his hair. “You think it beautiful that our cousin gave her the house?”
“I think it a generous gift, made of her own will and for her own reasons.” Julian’s voice was firm. “Which is not to say I do not miss the house, or feel a pang that it will never be mine. But that does not change what Lady Warrington meant to do.”
“Which was?”
Julian’s gaze drifted across the ballroom, as if something in him steered his eyes to her, and his heart lurched as he found her.
“A kindness,” he said, and heard his own voice soften.
“There is purpose behind it. But a kindness, all the same.” A silence came from his brother, but Julian did not turn.
Miss Trent stood by one of the tall windows, where the candlelight softened the angles of her face and turned her chestnut hair to copper.
Lady Manion was beside her, a sharpness about her eyes that spoke of a guard kept up.
“Then the matter is closed.”
“No. Not in the least.” Julian looked back at him.
“She and I are wrestling with the same questions. I have asked whether I might help her find the answers, the ones that will bring us both some peace.” Seeing the hope flicker in Brookmire’s face, he set a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.
“No. Not to gain the house, nor to trade it for Glenbrae. I bear her no grudge. Whatever the family once expected of Stoneleigh, it must be set aside. It is not mine to cling to, and I will not dishonor her choice by treating it as an insult to be avenged.”
Brookmire watched him closely, his brows knotting.
“But I will fight to understand why she did it,” Julian finished. “I must. I fear I shall wonder at it otherwise until I am old and gray.”
“And Miss Trent permits this?”
Julian nodded, his eyes going back to her, and finding hers already turned toward him, catching, holding a moment, a small smile flickering at the edge of her mouth and gone again. “She does. I think I should like to go and speak with her. You will not mind if I step away?”
“Society will be watching.”
Julian gave a rueful smile and dropped his hand from his brother’s shoulder.
“Precisely. She must see that I am as determined to be of use to her when all the room is watching as when it is not.” With a nod, he crossed the floor toward her — a little surprised to find Miss Galbraith in conversation with both Miss Trent and Lady Henderson.
After her foolish talk of exchanging houses, he had thought she might be too embarrassed to seek Miss Trent’s company again.
Then again, Miss Galbraith was a creature of great confidence, who had never in her life doubted how she appeared.
“You must find it all terribly strange, Miss Trent,” he heard her say as he drew near.
“To be mistress of so great a house, and with no warning at all — extraordinary, surely.” She tilted her head in a show of sympathy, her voice light and sweet.
“Lady Warrington was always so very considered. This decision is certainly… dramatic, if I may speak plainly.”
Julian frowned. Miss Trent’s face had colored, her eyes dropping to the floor a moment. “It has been a surprise,” he heard her answer, and his steps slowed. “Pray be assured that I am doing my utmost to take the responsibility seriously.”
“Miss Galbraith.” He came closer, unwilling to let her say more, for it was plain her words were ill judged and better left unsaid. “Miss Trent. Good evening.”
Miss Galbraith spoke first, her smile brightening. “Lord Carrington. How delightful.”
He nodded, but gave his attention to Miss Trent, who stood now with her hands loosely clasped and a steadiness in her eyes he was glad to see. No shrinking, then, from whatever Miss Galbraith had said. “Miss Trent.” He bowed. “I hope you are well this evening.”
“I was just speaking with Miss Trent of Lady Warrington,” Miss Galbraith put in before she could answer.
“Always so decisive, and yet so considered, was she not?” She gave a small sigh and, to Julian’s surprise, laid a brief hand upon his arm.
“It will be very strange to think of Stoneleigh House and not find you in it.”
Julian felt, with some surprise, the faintest tightness at the back of his neck.
It was not that the remark was rude in itself, but that it was pointed, and left a barb meant to catch in Miss Trent’s skin.
He allowed himself a small, controlled smile and looked from Miss Galbraith to Miss Trent.
“I think it quite right that Miss Trent take on Stoneleigh House,” he said firmly.
“It is what Lady Warrington desired, and it is my part now to respect that — as it is everyone’s. ”
He looked to Miss Trent and found himself, inexplicably, more aware of her than of anyone else in the room: the burnish of her hair in the candlelight, the tension going out of her shoulders as she let them down, the warmth flooding her brown eyes, and something curled, low and quiet, in his stomach.
“Lord Carrington, I must ask whether — ”
“If you will excuse me a moment, Miss Galbraith.” He kept his eyes on Miss Trent. “I was about to ask Miss Trent if she would stand up with me this evening.”
Her brows lifted, her eyes rounding as color rushed to her cheeks. “I would not refuse, my lord. But I must remind you that all of society is watching me just now. Have you considered that?”
“I have.” He took a step closer. “And I care nothing for it.” The country dance was announced, and he raised a brow. “The country dance, Miss Trent?”
“And if my brother is to dance with Miss Trent, then perhaps I might claim your company, Miss Galbraith?”
Julian glanced behind him and grinned to find Brookmire offering the lady his arm. Her smile came at once, a fresh light in her eyes as she laid her hand on his sleeve. “But of course, Brookmire. With pleasure.”
Turning back, Julian waited as Miss Trent bit her lip, then nodded and stepped closer to take his arm.
When her fingers settled on his, an unmistakable shift went through him — a thing he could not name, that made him smile down at her as she returned a faint smile of her own. “The country dance, then.”
As they moved to the center of the room, the murmurs around them seemed to swell.
Julian did not need to look to know every eye had turned, that the whispers were fixed on them now.
Miss Trent felt it too — her fingers tightened on his arm.
He gave her a smile as they took their places and she dropped into her curtsy, and then the dance brought her to him.
“You are aware,” she said quietly, as they moved through the first steps, “that everyone will speak of this?”