didn’t know him. For that
matter, he didn’t know her. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.
She was lovely – her beauty, frankly, was
unsurpassed in society circles. She was the belle of the Season. She was also a
daughter of an aristocratic family with money and connections. The Barony of
Stanley was an old and respected one. She would make a man a fine wife someday.
But she isn’t Sarah…
He smiled down at her as he led her in
another turn and thrust that thought from his mind.
The truth was, no one could compare to
Sarah. He couldn’t expect to find another Sarah from the pool of eligible
ladies in London. Sarah was one in a million.
The thought depressed him. God knew he
didn’t want a marriage like the one his mother and father had subsisted in.
No, that would never happen. He’d never be
like his father. Or his mother, for that matter. Both of them had indulged in
affairs – several affairs, in the case of his father. He’d kept mistresses in
Town while Mother had been left on her own at Ironwood Park.
Many of his peers kept mistresses secreted
away, to be brought forward when a man was bored or in need of sensual
companionship a wife could not or would not provide.
Simon had observed his mother’s misery
more than once. Long ago, he’d resolved to never do that to his own wife.
Holding both Miss Stanley’s delicate
gloved hands in his own, he looked down into her bright blue eyes and thought
about a life with a woman like her. She was beautiful and virtuous and
gregarious… all important components of a respectable duchess.
The music ended, and he bowed to Miss
Stanley and then to the lady to his left. Turning back to Miss Stanley, he led
her back to her mama, responding to her chatter but scarcely hearing it. When
they reached Lady Stanley, he asked Miss Stanley to accompany him to the
supper, which she accepted with pleasure.
She did seem to enjoy his company, but he
was no fool – he knew most of the time it was his title that held the allure.
That was why he could count his true friends – those he was sure liked him for
him – on one hand. Sarah, of course, was among those.
Leaving Miss Stanley with her mother, he
sought out Esme and Sarah… and with an inward cringe, he remembered his
sister’s awkwardness. Why did she struggle with social gatherings? He didn’t
understand it. She’d been raised to shine in such settings, and yet she simply…
didn’t.
Whitworth had taken Esme for their dance,
so he found Sarah sitting alone, watching the beginning strains of the country
dance. He slid into the chair beside her, gazing out over the ballroom floor.
“Where are they?” he asked her softly.
“Near the potted palm.”
Esme stood beside Whitworth, who gazed at
her with a small, encouraging smile on his face. Good man, Whitworth.
Simon had been present at her final ball
last summer. It had been a disaster. Not only had she fallen, sprawled over the
wood floor, but two other people had tripped over her, causing the most
unseemly pile of silk and wool and human limbs on the dance floor. He had
protected Esme from seeing it, but there had been a very unflattering
caricature of her in the scandal sheets the following day.
Glancing around, he saw they were still
whispering about it. Several ladies scattered throughout the ballroom were
pointing at Esme and giggling behind their fans.
In his mind, he catalogued the identities
of those who laughed at his sister. He wouldn’t make a scene, not here or
anywhere, but he’d remember.
“She’s so brave,” Sarah whispered.
He glanced at her, wondering if she knew
what had happened last year.
Sarah kept her gaze fastened on Esme, her
eyes glassy, and Simon wished he could dance with her. He wanted her in his
arms. He wanted her to be the one smiling up at him, looking at him with those
honest blue eyes.
But a duke did not ask his sister’s
companion to dance.
He remembered the first time he’d seen
Sarah dance, in the
matter, he didn’t know her. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.
She was lovely – her beauty, frankly, was
unsurpassed in society circles. She was the belle of the Season. She was also a
daughter of an aristocratic family with money and connections. The Barony of
Stanley was an old and respected one. She would make a man a fine wife someday.
But she isn’t Sarah…
He smiled down at her as he led her in
another turn and thrust that thought from his mind.
The truth was, no one could compare to
Sarah. He couldn’t expect to find another Sarah from the pool of eligible
ladies in London. Sarah was one in a million.
The thought depressed him. God knew he
didn’t want a marriage like the one his mother and father had subsisted in.
No, that would never happen. He’d never be
like his father. Or his mother, for that matter. Both of them had indulged in
affairs – several affairs, in the case of his father. He’d kept mistresses in
Town while Mother had been left on her own at Ironwood Park.
Many of his peers kept mistresses secreted
away, to be brought forward when a man was bored or in need of sensual
companionship a wife could not or would not provide.
Simon had observed his mother’s misery
more than once. Long ago, he’d resolved to never do that to his own wife.
Holding both Miss Stanley’s delicate
gloved hands in his own, he looked down into her bright blue eyes and thought
about a life with a woman like her. She was beautiful and virtuous and
gregarious… all important components of a respectable duchess.
The music ended, and he bowed to Miss
Stanley and then to the lady to his left. Turning back to Miss Stanley, he led
her back to her mama, responding to her chatter but scarcely hearing it. When
they reached Lady Stanley, he asked Miss Stanley to accompany him to the
supper, which she accepted with pleasure.
She did seem to enjoy his company, but he
was no fool – he knew most of the time it was his title that held the allure.
That was why he could count his true friends – those he was sure liked him for
him – on one hand. Sarah, of course, was among those.
Leaving Miss Stanley with her mother, he
sought out Esme and Sarah… and with an inward cringe, he remembered his
sister’s awkwardness. Why did she struggle with social gatherings? He didn’t
understand it. She’d been raised to shine in such settings, and yet she simply…
didn’t.
Whitworth had taken Esme for their dance,
so he found Sarah sitting alone, watching the beginning strains of the country
dance. He slid into the chair beside her, gazing out over the ballroom floor.
“Where are they?” he asked her softly.
“Near the potted palm.”
Esme stood beside Whitworth, who gazed at
her with a small, encouraging smile on his face. Good man, Whitworth.
Simon had been present at her final ball
last summer. It had been a disaster. Not only had she fallen, sprawled over the
wood floor, but two other people had tripped over her, causing the most
unseemly pile of silk and wool and human limbs on the dance floor. He had
protected Esme from seeing it, but there had been a very unflattering
caricature of her in the scandal sheets the following day.
Glancing around, he saw they were still
whispering about it. Several ladies scattered throughout the ballroom were
pointing at Esme and giggling behind their fans.
In his mind, he catalogued the identities
of those who laughed at his sister. He wouldn’t make a scene, not here or
anywhere, but he’d remember.
“She’s so brave,” Sarah whispered.
He glanced at her, wondering if she knew
what had happened last year.
Sarah kept her gaze fastened on Esme, her
eyes glassy, and Simon wished he could dance with her. He wanted her in his
arms. He wanted her to be the one smiling up at him, looking at him with those
honest blue eyes.
But a duke did not ask his sister’s
companion to dance.
He remembered the first time he’d seen
Sarah dance, in the
Similar Books
