The blue dress was sapphire, rather than blue, and the color, she had to admit, did bring out the greenish tone of her eyes—they were huge, round and frightened in her pale face. Her hair was a mass of honey-colored curls in the front, thick and fluffy. The length of her hair was drawn into a chignon that was decorated with pearl pins. A silver necklace hung abouther throat, the low oval neckline of the gown a little too low to be comfortable. The sleeves were puffs of blue silk, the skirt hanging from a high waistband of silk in a darker shade. The effect, she had to admit, was lovely, but she didn’t look like herself at all.
“Now, you’re ready, milady,” Judy said warmly. “I declare! You look lovely. Go and show Lady Rothendale, do!”
Bernadette inclined her head politely. “Thank you,” she said softly. She wasn’t altogether happy with her appearance—the image in the mirror didn’t even look like her—but she had to acknowledge the effort Judy had made for her.
“Daughter!” Mother declared as Bernadette approached her boudoir door. “Why! Look at you! You look like a future Countess already. You see? Your hair suits you well. And so modern.”
Bernadette felt her stomach turn over nauseously. She turned around as the butler came up to the door.
“My lady? Miss Bernadette? The guests have arrived. Should I tell them to wait in the anteroom?”
“Here? Already? Show them into the drawing room, of course!” Mama’s voice was nervous. “Bernadette! Hurry. No, wait. Don’t run. Take a deep breath. Remember, be composed, and comport yourself well.”
Bernadette took a moment to gape in confusion. What was she supposed to do? Hurry, or stroll? She followed Mama to the top of the stairs, as fast as she could.
“Now, remember. You’re a lady. No answering back, no racy talk, no...”
“My lady?” The butler spoke from up ahead of them. They both froze, Mama stopping her hectoring instantly. There were three men standing on the landing halfway up the stairs. One of them was Papa. He beamed at Bernadette and her mother; his face nevertheless tense.
“Amelia? Daughter?” He began, his voice tight and clipped. “May I present the Earl of Lockwood and his grandson, Viscount Blackburne.”
Bernadette stared up at the two men. Both were tall. The earl was vast and white-haired with broad shoulders and a big mustache, his eyes seeming dark and angry, even though he was beaming. But it wasn’t him who held every inch of her attention, making her root to the spot in a mix of amazement and fear.
It was the viscount who stood beside him. He was tall and blond, and he looked at her with his pale brows creased in confusion above wide, surprised blue eyes. It was the man with the scar.
Chapter 7
Nicholas stared at the young woman at the top of the stairs. Her one hand resting hesitantly on the railing, her honey coloured curls glowed warmly in the candlelight. It couldn’t be.
He stepped forward, narrowing his gaze. He could barely believe it. It was her! The hazel-eyed woman from the ballroom.
Heat flushed through him, his heart thudding hard in his chest. Of all the people in the world that he might meet, he had both longed to and hoped he wouldn’t. He felt his skin flush red as he recalled that night. He’d been quite offhand to her. He couldn’t blame her if she was angry with him. He swallowed hard, his fear redoubling.
“Lord Rothendale!” A loud voice from Nicholas’ right interrupted his thoughts. It was Grandfather greeting their host. “Good evening to you.”
“Good evening,” the tall, sandy-haired man with weary brown eyes murmured, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgement of Grandfather’s greeting.
“Lady Rothendale.” Grandfather bowed and took the hand of a thin, tense-looking woman with honey-colored hair in a chignon. “And of course, Miss Rowland,” Grandfather continuedlevelly. “I’m pleased to introduce my grandson, Nicholas Lovell, Viscount Blackburne.” Grandfather turned to Nicholas.
“Good evening,” Nicholas managed. His voice was level, which was good. He was shivering with nerves and discomfort. Meeting anyone was bad enough, but this was ten times more difficult.
Lady Rothendale curtseyed. Lord Rothendale reached for his hand. Nicholas flinched. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and neither was Lord Rothendale, and so the scar on his palm would probably be detected. He held out his hand stiffly. If Lord Rothendale noticed the scar, his reaction didn’t show on his face.
“Lord Blackburne.” The young woman greeted him softly. Nicholas bowed low. This close, he could smell the floral scent of her hair and he was aware of her in ways that made his senses swim. She had a squarish face and honey brown hair that glowed softly in the lamplight. Her nose was small and pert, and she had a pretty chin. Her figure was neither very slim nor very curvaceous, her cheeks flushed, and those inquiring, innocent hazel eyes scanned his face thoughtfully. He flinched as her eyes moved to his scar. He looked away, imagining her disgust. He didn’t need to see her distaste and shock to know it was there.
He was used to it. Pretty socialites like her always showed some disgust the first time they saw him.
“Would you like to sit awhile?” Lady Rothendale asked in a refined, clipped tone. “Or would you prefer to proceed directly to the dining-room?”
Nicholas glanced sideways at his grandfather. Having to sitand chit-chat before dinner was, strangely, something he hadn’t expected. He longed to escape.
“Let’s proceed downstairs directly to dinner instead,” Grandfather suggested, and Nicholas felt crippled with relief. He had never felt more thankful to the older man before.
“Did you have a pleasant coach-ride, Lord Blackburne?” Lady Rothendale asked as they walked. Miss Rowland was just in front of him and Lady Rothendale, and he breathed in, trying to ignore the confusing, wonderful floral smell of her.
“No. I mean, London traffic is as it is,” Nicholas said uncomfortably. He heard his grandfather splutter. Whether he was laughing at Nicholas’ honesty, or disapproving of it, was impossible to tell.
“He’s not one for coach travel,” Grandfather said swiftly. “You much prefer riding, eh, Nicholas?”
