Chapter 4 #2
Emma spun, heat rushing to her cheeks. It was the same lord she had spied earlier, the blond in the Roman’s cape. “I—I apologise, my lord. I did not realise I had an audience.”
“Oh, don’t apologize on my account.” He stepped out onto the balcony, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “It is the first interesting thing to happen to me all evening.”
Curtsying awkwardly, Emma cast a worried eye to the ballroom behind him. “Shall we rejoin the rest, my lord? I am without chaperone, and I would hate for you to be in an… untenable situation.”
No lord wanted to find himself leg-shackled to a perfect stranger on account of a moment’s poor judgment, much less one who was spoilt for choice.
Obliging, he reopened the door behind him and took a step back to stand beyond it, spreading his arms wide. “There, we are now in full view of many patrons here.”
Emma was not sure if that counted, but neither had the heart to wipe that boyish triumph from his face. “I… I remember seeing you earlier.”
His brows shot up. “Do you now?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “When you first arrived, I had the vaguest inkling that you had the bearing of a soldier… that is before the ladies formed the Great Wall around you.”
He threw his head back and laughed, a low, rich sound that made Emma blush. His laughter drew various looks to them, and she felt the crushing need to hide away.
Chuckling, he said, “My apologies for the lack of a proper introduction, my lady. I am Ashton Dorne, Marquess of Windham.”
Emma blinked—and blinked again. “My name is Emma Haverleigh, Sister to Viscount Penrose.”
“I am unfamiliar with the name,” Ashton said, and as Emma braced to explain her brother, he shrugged, “then again, I am unfamiliar with half of London, as I’ve only just returned from overseas.”
The lady was right.
“Truly?” Her interest piqued. “May I ask where you have traveled?”
“I lived in Europe for years,” he explained proudly. “My mother left to live in Spain when I was twelve, and at sixteen, after graduating from Eton, I went to spend time with her. I studied there too.”
No wonder your skin is so golden.
“I attended university there and traveled for a while. It was not until my uncle, my steward, called me home to take up the mantel that I considered returning. But—” he flashed a white smile, “upon meeting yourself, I am happy I have.”
Stunned for a moment, Emma then let the warmth of the compliment flow over her. “I am flattered, my lord,” she smiled. “And I am pleased to meet you, too.”
“Would you do me the honor of my first dance?” He bowed.
Until that moment, she hadn’t been aware that the orchestra had started up again, but now she heard the lilting first bars of a waltz.
“Good gracious. Your first?”
“Yes. Now, please answer as we may be cutting it rather fine.”
“Of-of course.” Emma did not hesitate this time, and she placed her hand in his, allowing him to escort her to the dance floor, making it in the nick of time.
Other couples joined them on the floor, and Emma could feel the burning gaze of the haute ton boring into the side of her neck, but she would ignore them, if only for tonight.
Her hand rested on his shoulder, and his warm smile made her chest flutter. As soon as the music began, he was holding her, gliding and twirling to the sensual notes of the music. It felt like a dream.
“Please tell me about Spain,” she asked. “Is it as exotic as it sounds?”
“With little comparison.” Ashton told her about the ancient cathedrals, the old palaces, the sweeping hills and meadows of the countryside, the bustling markets and the spontaneous dances that happened in the streets.
He painted such a vivid picture that Emma felt lost in his world. He certainly was handsome, polite, titled, and best of all, did not have the biases toward her family that most lords in London did.
But how long until he does?
The dour voice of reason sounded very much like Charlotte in her head, and Emma sobered quite quickly. Lord Ashton did not notice the shift in her demeanor as he regaled her with how he’d been forced to learn to draw the human form to earn his degree.
“A degree in business?” she frowned. “Sounds incongruous.”
“The Spaniards are incongruous folk,” he laughed. “Though I must confess, London has its own brand of incongruity. I have been here for scarcely a month and already I have heard more about some masked figure they call ‘The Phantom’ than I have about the King himself.”
“I wouldn’t know much about that,” she admitted.
“Nor would I, but it does make for colorful dinner conversation. Speaking of dinner conversations…” He spun them smoothly. “I formally invite you to my house party in a week’s time. Half the ladies here tonight have been invited, but it would honor me if you attended as well.”
When she hesitated, he quickly added, “It will be a luncheon and a musicale.” He tried for levity in his tone. “Do spare me the dignity of begging, my lady. Please come.”
Panicked, Emma shook her head quickly. “As much as I appreciate the invitation, I could not possibly. That is, I don’t think I have—”
“I would never force you,” he said again, his tone very soothing, “but don’t all young ladies love a singalong?”
She sighed. “Of all the matters on my mind these days, social outings are not exactly a priority.”
Lord Ashton cocked his head as he held her eyes. “No. But perhaps they ought to be.”
Even though it was a tentative meeting, Emma knew he did not know her family or from where she hailed, only that she came from gentility.
Standing here in a gown, with her hair curled, her gown as glorious as the others, her words soft and cultured, there was no mistaking her upbringing…
yet she did not want to lead with false expectations.
As the crescendo crashed over them, he spun them in a set of dizzying turns that sent her heart into her throat and, oddly, a feeling of lightness that tumbled out a light peal of giggles.
When he did steady them, she held onto his arms for dear life.
“That was… exhilarating.”
“I hoped so.” He flashed her a white-toothed grin. “Maybe it can ease the tension of whatever dour news you are planning on telling me next.”
She pulled away to curtsy and gave him a soft smile. “To be sincere, I do not want to give you a false impression of who I am or what sort of connection we may have.”
With her arm tucked into his, he swept her off the dance floor and to the line of refreshment tables. “Then I shall be sincere too. You will have a hard time dissuading my interest in you, Lady Emma.”
Craning her head to him, she wondered how he managed to always have the right words to say. “I suppose I must concede then. I would love to attend your house party, my lord.”
While the multi-tiered chandeliers blazed from the high ceiling, he filled their flutes under the fountain of champagne that bubbled at the corner of the room with a wink.
I may be in trouble here…
Spying all the frozen smiles and narrow-eyed glares of ladies around them, Emma took her glass with a shimmer of caution raking up the hairs on the back of her neck.
“If you would excuse me, my lord, I need to speak to my friends before the next set, and I suspect there are several ladies present who are awaiting their turn on your arms next.”
His head twisted over his shoulder, and he sighed before turning back to her. “Return quickly, please. I have been harassed by marriage-minded mamas enough this night.”
She laughed. “I do not think I am the deterrent you are seeking.”
“Well, I do not want to turn into a roaring bear, either,” he murmured. “I tried that once, and it only sent the ladies tittering behind their flustered fans. Apparently, a growly fellow is the height of fascination.”
“That is because of the Miranda Press, my lord,” she giggled.
The moment she moved off, the wall of ladies indeed re-erected itself around him, but Emma felt she had already made a good enough impression on him that he would come for her at the next set.
She made to find Harriet and Charlotte but spotted them speaking to two lords, brothers, and decided to disappear from the room for a moment.
I need to find that dastardly duke and give him an earful! If I don’t tonight, I may never get the chance.
She slipped from the ballroom and took the stairs up, retracing the memory of that lit windowsill she had spied from the carriage hours earlier. He was up there somewhere. She was certain of it.
The hallways were oddly empty for such a large manor, and she momentarily wondered if the duke did live here or if he only held it as an asset to host socials, as many of the peerage did.
Peeking into a music room fully stocked with instruments, she found it dark and undisturbed, and moved on in search of that sliver of light.
She took a wrong turn down one corridor, then another, the sounds of the ball growing fainter and fainter behind her until she was not entirely certain she knew her way back.
This was a foolish idea. The champagne must have gone to my head—I have absolutely no business wandering the private halls of a stranger’s home, much less a duke…
Spinning on her heel, she made to retrace her steps—when a soft but guttural groan stopped her cold.
“What—” She looked around, only to hear it again… further down the corridor.
A lurid red smear on the walls had her leaping away in fright. “Gadz!” she gasped. “Is that… is that blood?”
Leaning in, the coppery smell had her clapping her hand over her mouth in fear and repulsion.
It was blood. Was someone hurt?
She hurried down the corridor and found more blood smears on the wall, and at a door near a balcony, there was a bloody half-handprint on a doorknob.
Was someone bleeding to death? At a ball?
The door was barely shut, and she used her toe to poke it open and paused before stepping inside.
Her eyes landed on a man slouched in a chair, clutching at his lower abdomen, his shirt, skin, and trousers sodden with crimson.
His dark head was slumped forward, unmoving, his skin unworldly pale, deathly pale, in the moonlight from an open window.
Oh god—was he dead?