Chapter 4
“THE WHITMORES ARE on the veranda,” Mother hissed in Benedict’s ear. Or close to it. She was a head shorter than he and had to crane. “Come,” she said, propelling him through the crowd by his elbow.
Delicately, he extricated himself from her grip. It may come as a shock to his micromanaging mother, but he was perfectly capable of finding the veranda on his own.
The irony, though, was not lost on him. It was on the veranda, or just below it, a year before that he’d unintentionally ruined his betrothal—and now he was to renew the relationship with Miss Whitmore there?
It had only been a day since he’d agreed to Mother’s ridiculous plan, yet regret sat heavy in his chest. It was underhanded and possibly cruel.
But he’d given his word. And surely Miss Whitmore would recall him; there was no way this amnesia was truly so total as all that.
She remembered her family, did she not? How could she forget the man she must despise?
Something in his gut twisted. He normally did his utmost to avoid the corner of his mind that held recollections of Miss Grace Whitmore, yet now she was being forced to the forefront, and his guilt at having unwittingly spurned her—hurt her—had him feeling more than a little unsettled.
It illuminated the possibility of others he had spurned without knowledge.
Not other betrothals—but who else had his careless acts affected?
Even after a year of striving for gentlemanly ideals, he still felt the man who treated reputations flippantly, and he did not like it.
In not nearly enough time, Mother shepherded him through the ballroom and out the doors.
This early in the evening, it was rather vacant.
Most people had not reached a point of requiring fresh air.
As such, there were a handful of individuals clustered near the stairs, and on the opposite end, Mrs. Whitmore stood beside a young woman who was turned away, facing out to the gardens.
The matron’s eyes landed on Benedict and his mother and lit up.
Benedict did not like the gleam there. It bespoke mischief.
She motioned them over, gripping her daughter’s arm. The young lady looked at her mother, then slowly turned around.
The effect was surprisingly dramatic. The light from the ballroom hit Miss Whitmore’s face, bathing it in a golden glow as the colorful sky enhanced her from behind.
He’d met this young woman on many occasions over the last few years, but never before had her appearance affected him so.
She had always been just one more somewhat familiar face among his neighbors.
Perhaps it was because of the weight that attached itself to this particular interaction, but something felt different.
As he and his mother approached, he studied Miss Whitmore as he had never before.
Her hair was somewhere between blonde and brown, which he might have considered mousy.
But now it seemed to set off her complexion well, enhancing the brilliance to her skin.
Her eyes were dark—he hadn’t a clue their color, but they had thick lashes curling about them.
Her cheek bones and nose were delicate, and there was a sweetness to her mouth.
They were not particularly striking lips—a light pink and bordering on too thin for his taste—but they were quirked in not quite a smile, seeming as if that were their natural state. As if they always held a whisper of amusement.
That mouth quite captured him. To think, had he not kissed another at this very ball a year before, he would be married to Miss Whitmore. Would have kissed those very lips.
A strange sense of melancholy stole over him, and why the devil was that? He did not know this woman. Why should he be unhappy to have not tasted of her lips?
“Grace, dear,” Mrs. Whitmore said, wholly unaware of the odd sensations taking over Benedict’s body, leaving him itching to escape the uncomfortable situation, “Lady Shefford has brought her son to make your acquaintance. Good evening, Lord Ellison.”
Benedict braced for impact as Miss Whitmore’s gaze alighted on him. He waited for the narrowing look, the flash of recognition… but none came. Instead, her eyes swept over him, somewhat distracted, and that pleasant mouth lifted into a true smile, as she dipped a curtsy. “How do you do?”
Benedict could not make his mouth work, but Mother’s elbow was evidently in fine form, and it dug into his side. With a grimace, he bowed. And with a glare from his mother, he added, “Is your next set claimed, Miss Whitmore?”
“No, indeed it is not.”
“Then might I request the privilege of being your partner?”
She hesitated, eyes flicking to the ground then back up. “Certainly.”
“Go on and take her now, Benedict,” Mother said, all smiles for the two women before them. “The set is soon to commence, and you can acquaint yourselves as you wait.”
His cravat interfered with his tight swallow. “Wonderful suggestion. Miss Whitmore?” He offered his arm, even as his conscience twinged.
She accepted his escort without complaint, and he steered her away from their meddling mothers.
Her hand, light on his arm, settled heavily on his conscience.
Very well, if she truly did not recall him, he had to reevaluate his plan.
He could not try to win her heart as their mothers wished—that was unfair.
And he would not lie. But he could be kind. For two weeks.
Gads, how long would it take her to remember him? And why had he agreed to this foolhardy plan?
“Lord Ellison, do you have any siblings?” Miss Whitmore asked as they approached the crowd thronging the dancers.
“I do not. Ah, do you?” He did not actually know.
“Yes, four younger than myself.” A small smile lifted her lips before she tilted her head in thought. “Was it quite lonely growing up an only child?”
This was unlike the niceties he was used to, and it set him rather off balance. “I did not know any different, so not entirely. I had my friends and my parents. And my time at Cambridge introduced me to other young men.”
She nodded. “You have friends in the neighborhood then?”
“Yes. Silas Darby and I get on well. Do you know the family?”
She bit her lips together. “I am uncertain.”
“Oh, yes.” He was an idiot. “My mother told me. You endured an… injury?”
She nodded, stepping a tad closer as a couple maneuvered through the crowd around them, invading their space. “Yes. The doctors believe I lost much of the last six years.”
He shifted, feeling eyes upon them. These balls felt like a glass cage at times, with everyone watching the earl’s son, to see who he would dance with.
Now, instead of just the neighbors to dissect his every move, he had all the tenants and servants as well.
He forced his thoughts back to his partner.
“I am sorry. That sounds like a terrible situation to be in.”
Her smile was more sad than happy as she looked up at him. “Thank you. I am managing, though. I recognize your family name, but my mother says we are not well acquainted?”
He nodded but froze halfway through the action. “Do you recall how to dance?” She had to, yes? Otherwise, why would her mother allow Benedict to engage her in the forthcoming reel?
She faced the crowd, and he could not help but admire her profile. Perhaps her lips were not thin at all. They now seemed well-proportioned to her face. “I did not, in fact. But my mother has had an instructor run through the steps with me. They believe the exercise will do me well.”
“Do you? Believe the same, that is.” He found himself searching her expression. He was already enacting a falsehood with this woman. He would not force her into discomfort, no matter how much their mothers wished it.
Her eyes flicked out to the dancers, and he felt as if her fingers tightened a fraction on his arm. But her smile came with a single word. “Assuredly.”
He did not believe her. But he had no right to insist on truth when he was not giving it himself.
And, in that moment, the music came to an end. Now he needed only to manage half an hour of ensuring he led her adequately through the steps, then he could consider his duty done.
For tonight, at least.