Page 18 of A Secret Consequence for the Viscount
Eleanor ignored the first question and answered the second. ‘I think he was a lot less dangerous and more easily swayed perhaps.’
Nicholas Bartlett tipped his head as she said this and looked straight at her, across the distance of the room, across the music and the movement and the chatter and it was as if the tableau of everything faded. Only him. Only her. Only the memory of what had been. Her memory, but not his. She looked away and fidgeted with her reticule, hating the way her fingers shook as she reached for her fan.
‘Do you ever imagine yourself marrying again, Ellie?’ Rose’s voice was soft.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because you are a beautiful woman with much to offer a man.’
‘No.’ The word burst from her very being, the truth of such emotion worrying. Because she did not. If she could not have Nicholas Bartlett to love her again as he had done before then she did not want anyone. Ever.
‘Secrets can be lonely things, Eleanor. If you wish to talk...’
Rose left it there as they both looked across to watch the orchestra tune up for their next round of songs and then the Viscount was right next to her, holding out his hand.
‘You promised me a dance, Lady Eleanor, and I have come to claim it.’
‘I think this one is a waltz, sir,’ she clarified, hearing the tell-tale three-beat music.
‘Good,’ he returned, ‘for I am sure I can remember those steps.’
‘And your injured hand?’ When she looked she saw he had taken off the sling in readiness, only the bandage left, a snowy white against the dark edge of the cuff of his jacket.
‘The doctor assured me that if needs be I could remove the sling without too much harm.’
He had not danced at all that evening and she could see the interest in those around them as he made his way to the floor with her in tow. Her brother was watching, as was Rose and myriad other faces from further afield.
‘One turn about the floor shall not drag you into the mire of who I am, I think. It should be safe.’
His fingers were at her side now, the other injured hand coming carefully on to hers. She could feel his breath in her hair as he counted in the steps and see up close the damage done to his face.
He did not try to hide it from her and she liked that, but the scar was substantial and recent, the reddened edges of it only just knitted.
‘The wife of the owner of the tavern I worked at sewed it up for me.’ He said this when he saw her observing him. ‘She was an accomplished seamstress so I was lucky.’
‘Lucky...’ she echoed his word.
‘Not to die from it. Lucky to have escaped a second blow and still live.’
‘What happened to the man who did this to you?’
When he glanced at her and she saw the darkness in his eyes she knew exactly what had happened to his assailant.
A further difference. Another danger.
‘Scars can be hidden, too, Lord Bromley.’
The upturn of his mouth told her he had heard her whisper even when he did not answer.
‘And rest assured that in a room like this there will be people who have been hurt just as surely as you.’
‘But they have not the luck to dance with the most beautiful woman in the house.’
‘I think your eyesight must have suffered with your injury.’
‘Gold suits you.’
She was quiet.
