Page 7 of On a Midsummer Night
A flare of tenacity had him sitting forward in his seat. “Tell me, Miss Lucy, how are you enjoying your first season?”
The girl smiled, but not before Henry saw the look she cut to her cousin. “I believe the best way to describe the experience is to say it’s been a bit of a whirlwind.”
“An enjoyable one, I hope?” he said with a smirk.
A slide of her gaze to her cousin again. “For the most part, yes.”
Ah. A bit of honesty. “And what has not been enjoyable?”
The women exchanged a glance, and it was Beth who responded. “I can’t speak for Lucy, but I find the never-ending schedule of social events rather taxing.”
“I find that surprising, for I remember you always being the belle of the ball,” he remarked, noting how pink tinged Beth’s cheeks at his words.
“I daresay Beth is the belle of the ball even now,” Lucy said, affection in her blue eyes.
“I seem to recall that she danced every dance and held court over a gaggle of admirers.” Henry had been surprised when Beth had noticed him in Bristol, especially with many more successful men vying to win her attention.
And yet she was unmarried still.
“You are being kind, Mr. Ramsgate,” Beth demurred. “But I was younger then and more enamored with being out. I find my energies lag these days.”
“The schedule my mother keeps for us does not allow much room for personal pursuits,” Miss Lucy admitted, directing a commiserating smile at her cousin. “She has always said that there’s no room for rest during the season.”
“I suppose not,” Willoughby said, “although I admit to not having thought of the season in that way.”
Unable to help himself, Henry asked, “Mr. Dalton led me to believe he and his family primarily reside in London for most of the year. Is this where your family dwells now too, Miss Dalton?”
Beth tilted her head, her full brow quirking. “No. My family still lives in Bristol, although my parents and I have spent the last few years in Wales.”
Heat crept up his neck. Her tone was condescending, as if he should know the answer to his question. And then his mind registered the last part of her response. “Wales? Why Wales?”
“Why not Wales?” She flourished a hand. “It is a beautiful—dare I say magical—place, and when my father retired from his career in Her Majesty’s Navy, he desired to reconnect with my mother and me in peaceful surroundings.”
“That sounds rather idyllic,” Willoughby offered.
“It was.” Her expression was wistful. “My father was away at sea for the majority of my childhood, so I’m thankful I had an opportunity to develop a relationship with him. We have become quite close.”
Henry shifted in his seat. Once upon a time, he had been close with his father, and now the thought of him felt like a kick to the gut.
“Cousin Beth mentioned before you arrived, Mr. Ramsgate, that you knew her brother Oliver.” Miss Lucy leaned forward in her seat. “Are you still friends?”
He had instantly taken a liking to the gregarious Oliver Dalton when he started working for the railway—it was impossible not to like the man—and the two had become fast friends. Friendly enough that Oliver had invited him to visit his family in Bristol. And then his father died. Henry, devastated and disillusioned, had distanced himself from everyone, ruining friendships and souring acquaintances. It made it easier to focus on his career, on building his fortune separate from his father’s name and legacy. Henry had had to start over, and he’d learned the painful lesson that he couldn’t depend upon anyone to help him do it.
Suddenly aware the ladies were awaiting his response, Henry nodded. “I once counted Oliver as a friend and respected him greatly. Unfortunately, I have not seen him in several years, but I have heard that he’s doing exceedingly well for himself.”
He peered at Beth unconsciously. Henry would not have been able to keep his gaze from her if he tried. Her deep dark eyes met his, her expression passive, but he sensed the emotions simmering under the surface. The Beth he had known all those years ago had been expressive, her every thought and emotion visible on her face. But now . . . well, it appeared she had learned to mask that vivacity, and the knowledge that he might have had a part in that was a bitter draught.
“We’re hoping that Oliver will be able to visit soon, is that not right, Beth?” Miss Lucy said.
A small smile fell across Beth’s lips. “I’m hoping so. But he’s been incredibly busy, something I’m sure you understand, Mr. Willoughby,” she said, angling her shoulders to face the other man.
And just like that, Henry found himself as an outsider in Beth’s conversation with Willoughby. He watched her as she spoke, and several times he thought to interject, but the stiffness of her shoulders told him it was not a good idea. Obviously, from the intense way she focused on Willoughby, she was done conversing with him. It frustrated him, and yet Henry understood. Beth was another casualty of his father’s dreadful deception.
With a wane smile, Henry focused his attention on Lucy. The girl was amiable and sweet, if a bit shy, but pretty to look at and certainly well-connected. And Charles Dalton had all but revealed that Henry’s promotion would finally be approved if he married her. Something about keeping it all in the Great Western family. The sooner he married her, the sooner he could stop worrying that his horrible legacy would be revealed to all, destroying the fragile house of cards he had constructed.
Straightening his spine, Henry employed all his charms on Miss Lucy—even as the doe-eyed siren at her side called to him as no other woman ever had.
Chapter Three
