“Sorry.” Viola grinned. “But him! He’s so serious. You’d think he’d snap if he bowed, he’s so stiff.”
Bernadette giggled. The shame lifted, lost in Viola’s funny description. She grinned at her friend. The cool breeze blewaround them.
“Come on! It’s so nice and refreshing out here,” Viola said brightly, almost dragging her onwards towards the rail where there were fewer people.
Bernadette nodded. “I can feel it,” she murmured, stepping out onto the cold stone stairs at the edge. She breathed in the cool, dew scented air of the garden, and felt her soul ease a little. She was safe out there, away from critical gazes, the garden was welcoming and as cool as a spring breeze.
Here, her mother was far away, along with the ball and its attendees, all far away behind the doors, and even the scarred man—whoever he was—was safely hidden from view. The world felt good and safe, and no matter what reaction her family would have to her escaping the ball, it was worth it for these moments of peace.
She pushed the thoughts of the blond-haired man out of her mind and tried to relax.
Chapter 2
“Dash it,” Nicholas complained as the coach halted on the dark and bustling street. “Why is London always so horribly busy?”
The pavement was crowded despite the lateness of the hour, gentlemen in top-hats and dark coats hurrying past in the rain, and ladies in evening dresses waiting under awnings for the downpour to stop. The rain fell in swift drops, lit by the torches bracketed to the wall opposite.
“It’s the theater, old chap,” Andrew, his friend, drawled from his seat opposite. “The crowd is just pouring out.”
“I suppose,” Nicholas grunted. He leaned back, wishing he wasn’t restless. The ball had left him feeling shaken, and he couldn’t exactly say why. The girl who’d stared up at him so shyly was some part of the reason—every time he shut his eyes, he saw that wide, hazel stare. She’d looked frightened, but she hadn’t looked disgusted. And that was strange.
Everyone is disgusted by my scar.
The scar—a white, puckered line about the width of a piece of string—cut across his well-molded mouth from the base of his nose to his chin. It had been there since a building accident whenhe was a child. A glazier working at his home, Lockwood Manor, had been inattentive for a moment and a playful ten-year-old Nicholas had rushed into a pane of glass, not seeing it where the man had leant it up against the tree. It shattered, cutting his hands and face. The scars on his hands were not so serious—he could wear gloves. But the one on his face he could not hide.
“Damn it,” he swore again, feeling impatient. “Whatever is wrong in the street?” The coach had been stopped for a few minutes and he peered out into the darkness, trying to see what was blocking the road. As Viscount Blackburne, he had the right to demand that the street be cleared, but Nicholas was not the sort of person to wield his peerage like a weapon. He wasn’t the sort of person to try and force his wishes on anyone.
I know all too well how it feels,he thought sadly. As the heir to the Earl of Lockwood, he knew what expectation felt like. His grandfather heaped it on him.
“They’ll get moving soon, old chap,” Andrew murmured, seeming untroubled. Andrew always seemed untroubled. A handsome enough fellow, with a squarish face, sandy hair and brown eyes that sparkled with a keen intellect, Andrew didn’t seem to have a care in the world. He was a baron, if an impoverished one, and, even if he had financial woes, he had no trouble from family expectations.
Nicholas leaned back on the leather seat. His head hurt from tiredness; his eyes sore after spending most of the night standing silently in the bright light of the chandeliers.
“I’m tired,” Andrew commented, stifling a yawn. “And my feet hurt. How about you?” He smiled sleepily at Nicholas acrossthe coach.
Nicholas let out a sigh. “I’m not exactly brimful of strength myself right now,” he murmured lightly. Andrew laughed.
Nicholas swallowed hard. Andrew had danced a few dances, flirting in his own dry, casual way. But Nicholas had spent the whole evening weathering people’s stares, imagining them whispering behind their hands. The scar, he always thought, was bad enough. People’s attitude to it was even worse.
He blinked, shutting his piercing blue eyes for a moment. The crowd was clearing, the noise quieting down.
“About time,” he grumbled.
He had promised his mother he’d have breakfast with her at Aldford House, and if he didn’t get into bed soon, he was going to wake up too late.
He checked his gold pocket-watch. It showed that it was almost half-past twelve. He winced, shutting his eyes. He’d promised his mother and his stepfather that he’d reach their home by eight o’ clock, and he wasn’t going to get much sleep if that was the case.
“You’re almost there, eh, old chap?” Andrew commented. “I’ll jump out here, if you don’t mind.” He gestured to the corner near the Northbrook Club. His lodgings were in the same street.
“Of course,” Nicholas commented, blinking. He’d barely noticed that they were so close to his home already. “I wish you a good rest,” he murmured, as the coach slowed and Andrew stoodup. They had agreed beforehand that Nicholas’ carriage would take them both home. Then the coachman stopped at the corner and Andrew jumped down.
“Goodnight,” He called to Nicholas.
“Have a good sleep,” Nicholas replied, lifting his hand to wave.
Andrew lifted his hat in salute and sauntered off. Nicholas shut the coach door and leaned back, shutting his eyes. He was almost asleep when the coach drew up outside Blackburne House.
“My lord? Are you feeling quite well?” the coachman called down.
