He stopped midstride, his arms falling limp to his sides.
He should let her help? Where had that come from? And why did the thought bring relief?
Someone else had offered to help, too. Two hearts willing to shoulder some of the heaviness so he could find happiness.
And he had turned both away?
Madness.
He jolted into action and set a bruising pace toward his sister’s house. He was winded and sweaty when the butler opened the door.
“George?” Martha clambered down the steps. “Is Neville unwell? Are you?”
“I apologize for intruding—”
“Bah. You’re never an intrusion. Come to the sitting room. You look positively feral.”
He let her guide him down the hall. “We must talk.”
“Of course. Come in. What about?”
They walked together deeper into the warm house. “I need your help.” The hardest words he’d ever had to say. He was a man who always took care of his own responsibilities, who controlled every situation with precision and ease. He often gave help but never asked for it because he did not need it. Asking for help seemed the cowardly thing.
But perhaps it was not. Perhaps asking for help was the most daring thing George could do.
Chapter 27
Jane and Lillian stood on the edge of the ballroom, watching the couples swirl around one another in a dance glittering with jewels, feathers, and shining silks. Lord Wix’s ballroom was a complete crush. But Jane and Lillian stayed glued to one spot.
“This feels familiar,” Lillian said. “Wallflowers once more.”
Jane grinned and elbowed Lillian in the arm. “But not you. Not for long. Think of this as one last dance with obscurity before retiring your wallflower slippers for good. If you lifted your gaze from your shoes and caught a man’s eye—any man—he’d throw himself through fire to ask your hand in a dance.”
Lillian snorted. “We’ll see next season.”
“Why not start now?”
Lillian pulled on her earlobe. “I’m not ready.” Her voice was a mere whisper.
“Very well then, keep your wall company. I’ll help you.”
“But you must find George.”
“Oh, who knows where he is?” She tried to sound as if she did not care, but she’d orchestrated the loss of her fan merely to delay their arrival to the ball. If they had arrived on time, they would have greeted the family at the door, and she was not yet ready to face him. Because she’d told him she would wait for him, and it had seemed to make no difference. She should not have come. No doubt he did not want her there. But she had promised she would not avoid him. She could not back down now.
“We should at least find Lady Wix,” Lillian said, “to thank her for the use of her modiste.” Lillian swept her hands down the length of her body, illustrating her point. She wore a gauzy gold concoction entirely unsuitable for the chilly December night. Jane’s gown was similarly impractical, as white as snow and embroidered with pearls; the tiny puff sleeves were barely there and the bodice laughable.
“Excuse me, Miss Clarke?”
Jane and Lillian looked up. A handsome gentleman with a shy smile bowed, eyes only for Lillian.
“Hello, Mr. Bambridge,” Lillian said.
“You do remember me. I wondered.”
She flipped open her fan and fluttered it in front of her face, hiding and then revealing a sly grin. “Lady Grantly’s ball. I remember.”
Oh, Lillian was good. Where was her habitual stammer when facing a man? Where were her awkward blushes? This confident woman would have no troubles wooing thetonnext season. Jane thrilled for her friend. She could barely keep her toes from tapping, watching the exchange.
