Page 7 of Lady, Behave
She could barely breathe. To secure the friendship of such a dashing creature on her first night out made her head spin. “You will?”
“I make no promises I do not keep, Addy.”
“We should be delighted to have you. Tomorrow. Any day. Every day.” She hesitated for a moment, then did as he had bid her and called him by his given name. “Gyles.”
The musicians wound to the conclusion of their tune while the pair of them smiled at each other like two court jesters.
“We are in a house off the Marine Parade,” she told him as they ended their dance. “At number twenty Charles Street.”
From the corner of her eye, Addy detected the scrutiny of his mother. The duchess was not happy to see her son in Addy’s company. But her reputation was spotless. Utterly! Not even her sisters, Laurel and Imogen, were as unblemished. Surely, Grandpapa was not so ignoble as the good lady presumed. What did it matter that he had acquired a few items that were not his own? That he had profited from their keeping and their sale? He was not as scurrilous as many? Why, were there not scoundrels of every noble title in this very ballroom? In this seaside town?
A high sharp shriek from an instrument rent the air.
Gyles winced and slapped his hand to his forehead. “What in hell is that?” he asked as cymbals clashed and rang as they hit the floor.
“A violinist mis-struck his bow,” Addy told him and led him away from the dancers, her arm wound in his. “A tympanist lost his cymbals. They’re both fine. But you are not. Come with me to the chairs.”
Pale, panting for air, his eyes closed, he walked along with her. With each step, he fought to move with ease, but still, he stumbled twice.
Sitting beside him, Addy held his hand, no matter propriety. He needed her. She knew enough of his malady to sit for many minutes without a word between them. He recovered himself, but slowly. And when a footman approached with a tray of wine or whiskey on offer, Gyles would have taken one.
“Do not,” she admonished.
He stared at her. “No?”
“Spirits will only aggravate your condition.”
He looked away but grimaced at the bright light of candles in a nearby sconce.
“Close your eyes. Turn toward me.” She stroked his hand and wrapped her fingers around his wrist and counted. “There. Your heartbeat slows. You will be well. Give this a few minutes.”
He did as she bade him, and in his time, he opened his eyes to consider her with quiet appreciation shining there. “You know my condition.”
“Bold sounds. Bright lights. Alcohol. Late nights. Exertion. They all contribute to your headaches. How long have you suffered them?”
He exhaled. “Since I was imprisoned by the French when I was young.”
“I see.” She squeezed his hand in sympathy. About that, she would learn more but not tonight. He had to recover first before he relived the cause of his distress. “You should not be at balls, sir. But home where you can be quiet and untroubled.”
“But if I did not attend here tonight, I would not have found you again.”
She bobbed her head to and fro. “We might have met in more sedate gatherings.”
“Perhaps. I would have chanced missing you.”
She had never been so sweetly entranced by a man who confessed to his liking for her in so unique a manner. “My sisters and I are in Brighton specifically to enjoy the Season. We will be…” she said as she circled a hand in the air, “everywhere.”
“Addy, how may I press my advantage?”
“You made an impression on me yesterday, Gyles. I will not soon forget you.”
He grasped her hand tightly. “Don’t forget me at all.”
“I won’t. How could I? You like my syrup.” She had to tease him and make him smile.
“I do. Among other things.”
She nodded, compassion in her heart for so afflicted a darling man. “Perhaps my dancing, too?”
