Page 5 of Deceiving an Earl
Chapter Two
Oliver sat in the back of the room, figuring if the poetry reading became too tedious he could make a quick escape.
He was not alone. A few other men had quickly taken the empty seats around him, commiserating with each other with long faces and raised brows.
Oliver recognized a famous actress, and an opera singer. There was a journalist fromThe Daily Telegraph.
It was an eclectic group of people, and from what he gathered, these salons were held periodically, focusing on one art form or another. He’d heard that some of them involved nude drawings. But, alas, he was subject to a poetry reading. He hoped to God it wasn’t Byron. A sniveling fool, in Oliver’s estimation.
The Chartist walked in—Bertrand—with a beautiful woman on his arm who, upon closer inspection, appeared very much younger than him.
But it wasn’t the woman Oliver was interested in. Why would Ellen invite a Chartist to her gatherings? Her husband was dead, but her son was the current Earl of Fieldhurst and if there was one thing Oliver knew about Ellen it was that she was fiercely protective of her son. A reputation as one who hosted a Chartist was not a good reputation to have.
And then Ellen sailed in, a stunning sight in burgundy with all of that black hair, dark, dark eyes, and pale skin. She smiled to a few people as she made her way to the front.
Oliver didn’t listen to her words of introduction so much as he let the cadence of her seductive voice carry him backward through time.
Oliver had his wine glass halfway to his mouth when he spied her. She was across the room, various guests flitting between him and her, frustratingly obstructing his view so that he had to twist his head in unnatural positions to keep his eye on her.
She was dressed in pale, earthy green, like the color of springtime. But she didn’t put him in mind of spring. No, she was more like winter, or maybe a dark, stormy summer night, with all that black, black hair piled high on her head and those dark eyes that were crinkled in laughter.
A dark emerald would have looked better on her, but she was young, most assuredly a debutante, and the darker colors were better suited to the more mature women.
And still he couldn’t look away. His old schoolmate, Kitchener, was droning endlessly in his ear, but Oliver had stopped listening the moment he spied her.
“Who is that?” Oliver interrupted, rather rudely.
Kitchener paused. “Who?”
“Her.” Oliver gestured with the glass he was holding. “In the green.”
Kitchener squinted through the crowd, and Oliver was surprised at how impatient he felt. He wanted to know her name. Right that moment. How absurd. But nonetheless there it was.
“I don’t see…” Kitchener’s expression cleared. “Oh. Miss Ellen Hillgrave.”
“Miss Ellen Hillgrave,” Oliver said to himself. Ellen. “Do you know her?”
“We met once—”
That was all Oliver needed to hear. He grabbed Kitchener by the sleeve and dragged him across the dance floor, through the swirling bodies, straight toward Ellen.
He stopped a safe distance away. “You will introduce us,” he said.
Kitchener gulped. He was a socially awkward one, preferring his books to balls. How he ended up at this ball Oliver didn’t know, but he was glad Kitchener was there to make the introduction. How was it that he had not known of this Miss Hillgrave?
He was pretty certain that since he’d left Eton, his mother had shoved every available chit in his face in the hopes that a spark of something would ignite and Oliver would fall madly in love, court and marry, and partake in the bearing of children. It had not happened yet.
But his mother had not introduced him to Miss Hillgrave.
Kitchener cleared his throat and bravely stepped forward.
The gaggle of girls that Miss Hillgrave was in the presence of all stopped talking and turned expectantly to Kitchener. His face turned an alarming shade of red, and he stammered.
“Miss Hillgrave, I would like for you to meet The Viscount Fairview.”
Oliver stepped forward and bowed. Miss Hillgrave’s brow went up, her cool, dark eyes dancing with an inner amusement, and for a moment Oliver faltered. Well, what had he expected? The girl to fall at his feet? To fawn over him?
“My pleasure, miss.”
