Prologue #2
Breathing sighs of relief, Lily and Sophia swiftly made their way from the crowded ballroom, pushing open the fogged terrace doors. Laughing softly, they spilled out into the cool spring night.
As the doors swung shut, muting the sounds of music and chatter, the pair walked to a far corner of the grand balcony overlooking the vast lawn that stretched down to the river’s edge.
It was not so much the quadrille he had just danced as the insipid dancing partners he sought to escape that drove Richard onto the balcony, where he inhaled the cool spring air with relief.
The crowded Astley ball was the first of the Season, and so far, it had proven long and tiresome.
His dances had been an unceasing procession of pretty, empty-headed misses, devoid of original thought.
He just needed to find one who was … well …
thoughtful—or at least reasonably sensible—and this tiresome obligation would be over.
He reached into his pocket for his silver cheroot case, an indulgence he rarely allowed himself, when he overheard female voices from the far end of the terrace.
“What a travesty of an evening! There is not one interesting gentleman here. Spoiled, entitled bores and rogues, every last one! I thought I might fall asleep from the tedium during one dance—not to mention I danced with at least three gentlemen who, I know for a fact, are keeping mistresses. What business do they have seeking a wife?”
Richard smiled faintly, savoring the fresh night air as he listened to the tirade and the heavy sarcasm lacing the word gentlemen. This girl sounded intriguing—one unafraid to roast an entire ballroom of peers in their absence.
“Perhaps they will reform for the right bride?” a second voice chimed in, lilting with optimism.
“Lily, you are such a na?ve romantic. Polite society is hypocritical and grossly unfair to women. King George is not even cold in his grave, and his son is rumored to be arranging a trial for Queen Caroline over her supposed indiscretions—while his own are legendary.”
Richard glanced around, ensuring no one else could overhear the bold remarks. The speaker would be ruined if anyone noted her injudicious opinions.
The voice continued, now lowered and husky, mimicking, “I will be king, but you will be tried, harlot wife! Be careful not to trip over my mistress there by the door. Or the one behind you. No, no, do not sit on the bed—I will never hear the end of it if you squash Mrs. Fitzherbert.”
The second girl giggled as Richard bit back a laugh.
“Shhh, Sophia! If anyone hears you talk this way, you will be ruined.”
“Oh, horrors! I will stop receiving invitations from people I do not like and be forced to live outside polite society as a spinster, with only an unspecified dowry to keep me company. Oh—wait—I cannot think of a more glorious reprieve!”
Richard smirked at the cynic’s sentiments. If he must marry, it would be a relief to avoid a dull girl who could ruin even breakfast. A woman like this one might enliven every meal.
His thoughts halted abruptly when the optimist spoke again.
“But, Sophia, what of Lord Saunton, whom you danced with earlier? He is ever so handsome.”
Richard started at the mention of his name. So, the satirical wit had been his dance partner?
The first girl—clearly Sophia—snorted. “You jest! Lord Richard-the-Rogue Balfour, the infamous Earl of Saunton? He might be the most faithless peer in the realm! It was all I could do to politely bat my eyelashes and smile genteelly at his banal small talk. Were I to marry such a man, I would need to hire only old, grumpy housemaids to avoid embarrassment and family drama.”
Richard froze. He dropped the cheroot case back into his pocket, his breathing suddenly labored as he stepped farther into the shadows. Her words struck him like a blow, freezing the blood in his veins. Was this how people truly saw him?
The memory came unbidden, sharp and vivid.
“Lucas is such a heartless cad. Can he not respect me sufficiently to avoid breaking my heart in our home with our own servants? Perhaps I should get rid of all the attractive ones. Or the young ones. Or perhaps all the women on our staff.”
He had been seven, playing with pewter soldiers behind a sofa when his mother’s weeping had interrupted his game.
She had spoken those words to his aunt over tea in the blue drawing room.
At the time, he had not fully understood, but now, as the recollection flooded back, he grasped its devastating meaning.
Weeks later, she had grown ill and faded away, as though sorrow had stolen her will to fight.
Am I a laughable caricature of my father?
Richard grimaced, recalling his own uncharitable thoughts about his former betrothed.
Annabel had ended their engagement after finding him kissing her kitchen maid in the stables.
A clap of thunder might have struck with less force than the clarity that now overwhelmed him: his behavior had been reprehensible.
Trembling, he leaned back against the wall, his knees weak and unsteady. He could not bring himself to move.
The girls on the balcony rounded the corner, finishing their conversation. The taller one—razor-tongued Sophia—stepped into the light spilling from the ballroom doorway. Richard recognized her instantly as his earlier dance partner.
Her companion followed, a diminutive girl with rich brown hair, but Richard barely noticed her. His eyes were fixed on Sophia, the so-called empty-headed miss, who had revealed her wit and depth with devastating precision.
How could he have been so wrong about her? This was no shallow debutante. She was a sharp-witted termagant who had laid bare the truth of his careless existence. Her cutting remarks had pierced him to the soul.
Shrinking deeper into the shadows, Richard prayed to remain unseen. The girls looked straight ahead, their gazes focused on the ballroom as they exited the terrace.
Alone now, Richard scanned the garden for a route to the mews where his coach awaited. He could not rejoin the ball, not in this state. His mind reeled as memories of his father’s downfall surfaced—a man undone by indulgence and excess. Had he become the same?
A maelstrom of regret churned within him. If his mother were alive, he would not have been able to meet her gaze. She would have been ashamed—nay, wounded—by the man he had become.