Page 3 of A Bride By Morning
One hour. In one hour, he would go home and decline invitations for every ball, garden party, and fête for the next sennight. Then he would find a woman to fuck until the ice in his veins thawed just enough to perform the role of the Earl of Montgomery once more. Until his facade no longer slipped so easily.
Until he could again ignore the past that haunted him.
Wentworth waved to an acquaintance across the room, then returned his attention to Gabriel. “Not a damn thing. She’s either entirely ignorant of her husband’s activities or the best actress who ever lived. I suggested the possibility of investing in Lord Coningsby’s shipping business, and she monopolized the entire conversation to talk about silk. I was ready to lop my ears off before you appeared.”
“Mm.” Gabriel tapped his finger against the column in agitation. “If Lord Coningsby is passing intelligence to Russia in exchange for their business, he’s not going to tell his wife about it. I told you she was a waste of time.”
Wentworth looked annoyed. “What has you so fucking sour?”
Not what.
Who.
Gabriel’s eyes instantly found her; all he had to do was seek the most isolated corner of the ballroom. And there she was: hands gently clasped at her waist, watching the dancers with the courteous interest of someone observing a play at the theater. If he had knownshewould be here, he would have prepared himself better. Considered not attending.Shewas part of that past he wished to forget.
Miss Lydia Cecil.
Unable to stop himself, Gabriel’s gaze swept the length of her. Her soft pink dress suited her pale complexion, now delicately flushed from the warmth of the ballroom. A single ringlet of dark hair had escaped her coiffure and now rested in a tantalizing curl at her collarbone. It tempted Gabriel like a beckoned finger.
In his absence, Lydia’s youthful social discomfiture had taken on a different appearance: from his vantage, she appeared almost glacial. As remote and sharp-edged as ice floating in the Atlantic and every bit as unapproachable.
At seven-and-twenty, Lydia had long since been regarded a spinster, but her Aunt Francis, Lady Derby, brought her to gatherings as a sort of companion. A flame of remorse burned in his chest. Gabriel was, after all, responsible for her current predicament.
Promise you’ll wait for me.
I’ll wait for you. I promise.
Lydia’s head rose, and their eyes locked across the room. His guilt blazed hotter.You’re a curse of a girl, he wanted to tell her, squashing that weakness in his heart like a pest.The bane of my fucking existence.
Lydia was a constant reminder of who he could have been if he had stayed in that room ten years ago.
Wait for me.
As if she heard his thoughts, her lips flattened, and she looked away. Their moment was over.
Good. Let Lydia think Gabriel hated her. It was better that way.
The din of the ballroom filtered back into Gabriel’s senses. “I have a headache,” he finally said to Wentworth.
Wentworth snorted. “You’ve grown soft in your retirement.”
“But I’m not truly retired, am I? You keep calling on me for favors.” Gabriel noticed Lord Coningsby enter the ballroom, and he pushed off the column. “There’s Coningsby. Distract him while I search the house.”
As Wentworth left to engage their host in conversation, Gabriel slipped out of the ballroom and went in search of his host’s study. For once, he was relieved to fall back into his old position. He had to leave Lydia behind. She belonged in glittering ballrooms, surrounded by pleasant chatter.
And he belonged in the shadows because the world had broken the boy she loved.
2
Balls had always made Miss Lydia Cecil uneasy.
While conversing in a drawing room came more easily to her, she found it nearly impossible amid the din of the ballroom. The cacophony of conversation over screeching orchestra violins was an assault on her senses. If a gentleman took it upon himself to request a dance from Lydia, he would discover that words eluded her. That her answers were too curt to be considered polite.
No wonder she’s a spinster, she’d heard a peer mutter to his friend when he thought she couldn’t hear.A woman that frigid would be a dull fuck, besides.
After that, Lydia no longer accepted dances. Instead, she withdrew to her small corner of the room, responding politely when her Aunt Frances, Viscountess of Derby, included her in discussions with the other society matrons. Lydia tried not to notice how the older women regarded her with a maternal sort of pity.
Such a sweet girl, the matrons said.A shame she’ll never marry.
