“There is someone here I did not expect to see.” Tears were welling in her eyes, and Woolwich took her arm and led her through the crush of people towards the refreshments. All the while, he forced himself not to notice the movement of the red-haired woman—there were plenty of ladies, he was certain, who had similar hair colour to his Miss Blackman. Wait, she was nothis. And never would be. It was vital he remember that, if only for his own sanity.
Lady Lamont lifted wet eyes up to his face, her youthful countenance making Woolwich wish to pat her on the back. But if he touched anything other than her arm in such a place, they might as well announce their engagement. “Is it a young man who has behaved in a manner—”
“No,” she said, taking the glass of lemonade he passed to her, “It is Lady Silverton’s sister. She and I were dear, dear friends at school. She is the only person—that is… I have missed her. I—I did not expect to see her in Town.”
Young women confused Woolwich no end. Why would one cry over a friend? Especially since the girl had returned to her circle. “Did the two of you fall out?”
“I do not think anyone could disagree with her.” Lady Lamont looked pained. “Miss Walsh is one of the sweetest people—” she turned on her heel and made another strange noise, her gloved hand shooting out as if she were reaching towards the approaching figure. A be-spectacled, strawberry blonde girl who looked around Lady Lamont’s age was indeed marching towards them, Lord and Lady Silverton in her wake. There was an awkward pause, then what Woolwich assumed was Miss Walsh gave Lady Lamont a broad smile, and the two girls launched themselves into a hug, their talk at a rapid pace, whilst Woolwich bowed to the Viscount and his wife. Without a backwards glance, the two girls rushed off, leaving Woolwich with the married couple.
Lady Silverton was watching the pair of them leave, and when she turned back to Woolwich, she moved forward and said with a slight lilt to her musical voice, “I hope you do not take this in the wrong way, Your Grace, but do any of your friends, or indeed yourself, have any romantic intentions towards Lady Lamont?”
“No.” Woolwich looked appalled, and even Lord Silverton looked rather shocked by his wife’s directness.
“That is a relief. I do think it would quite break my sister’s heart.” It was uttered in an undertone, but Woolwich caught it and suddenly understood what was happening right beneath his nose. Lady Lamont’s sudden smile and affection when previously she had been so removed and shy. Miss Walsh and she loved each other, that was clear, and judging by the immediate response from Lady Silverton’s sister, the love was reciprocated. It brought a smile to his face. There was just a touch of jealousy stirring in Woolwich since he knew he would not allow himself to feel that emotion again. He wished both girls well, and he hoped their love would find a way in such a difficult world.
“I wish all concerned nothing but happiness,” he bowed to the couple and then made his way back towards the ballroom. Everyone else was falling in love… finding solace in it. His eyes swept the grand imposing chamber and unwillingly, like a moth to a flame, found the object he both sought and rejected: Miss Blackman.
She was dancing. Her generous figure was beautifully clothed in shimmering, buttery silk. Her red hair was captured and held by a string of pearls woven in amongst her curls. Her skin shone with the faintest of summery warmth, and her wide smile was a gift to the man in uniform with whom she was partnered. Curse whoever that soldier was.
Woolwich stalked around the dance floor, trying not to follow her and yet constantly feeling that he was. She was impossible to miss. How had she resisted, or rather, how had so many men failed to court her? Were they all blind and stupid? He supposed that might well be a fair summary of theton.
When she returned to the waiting arms of Mr. Goudge, that insufferabledon, Woolwich almost charged on to the dance floor to pull Clara away. What was she thinking? How could she entertain such a popinjay?
It was only thanks to a pained cry and the sudden awareness that he had been paying so little attention to anything else that he had stood on the end of one of the gowns of another deb. The girl turned around furiously, saw it was him, and stammered a handful of bashful remarks before disappearing to fix her dress. The other woman she’d been with turned bright green eyes on Woolwich and gave him a warm smile. This lady was not a debutante, of that he was certain. There was too much alertness in her emerald-coloured eyes and too much mirth to her smile. Could she be a widow, eager to form a less than honourable liaison, he wondered. The thought was pushed from his mind abruptly, not because the woman before him was not charming, but because he realised with a rather low admittance that unless the lady was a very particular, petite, sharp-tongued redhead, he would not be able to muster enough interest to kiss another woman, let alone do anything else.
“We met last year, Your Grace. My brother-in-law speaks of you often.”
“Indeed.” Woolwich racked his mind attempting to place the tall, good-looking brunette before him. It would hardly do to admit that a majority of the time, most people he assigned to a bluff of nameless, faceless others, his gruff exterior scaring off most, and his shyness in social settings leading him to wish that anyone else who remained left him well enough alone.
With charm aplenty, the woman offered him her hand. “Lady Langley, Your Grace.”
“My lady.” He bowed.
“I believe my son was foolish enough to crash into yours at the park. I was relieved to hear that your boy was making a speedy recovery,” Lady Langley continued, as Woolwich realised that the woman was not just the sister-in-law of whatever colleague in the House Of Lords, but she was also the Countess of Langley. She would hardly be interested in an affair with him, given who her husband was. “Perhaps if you were agreeable, we could re-introduce the three of our children. I know my son dearly wishes to express his own apologies. And where one of my sons goes, the other always follows.”
“My son would benefit from some friends his own age.”
“We visit Hyde Park at ten every Tuesday and Thursday, close to the walled garden, if you would care to join us.”
Woolwich nodded in agreement. It was time he ventured out of the house with Beau, and having him play with his peers would be an excellent rationale. “I suppose I should offer apologies for your friend’s spoiled dress.”
“I think Miss Stockton will survive. She cuts through enough other debutantes to be aware of the ruinous effect herself.” This rather sharp remark made Woolwich laugh. The lull in the music drew some attention towards them.
It was then that he saw Mr. Goudge and Miss Blackman making their way from the dance floor as the set was finishing. With a keenness that surprised even himself, Woolwich made his goodbyes and cut directly towards the couple as pair after pair slipped from the floor.
Miss Blackman was not paying attention, and when he stepped in front of her, it was to hear a slight noise of surprise. It pleased Woolwich to hear her intake of breath. Both Mr. Goudge and Clara bowed, murmuring, “Your Grace.”
“You promised me a dance,” Woolwich said. He had not planned to open with such a falsehood, as Clara had done no such thing, but the idea popped into his head, and he could not resist the temptation. He watched Clara’s eyes widen, and she chewed her lip.
“Mr. Goudge was just escorting me to the refreshment table,” she settled on.
“I would be happy to take you there before our dance.”
“I—that is—”
“I am happy to make my excuses.” Mr. Goudge released Miss Blackman’s arm. “I wish to seek out your brother-in-law before the night quite escapes me. Your Grace, my dear.” He bowed and slipped away. Woolwich watched his departing form with firm dislike.
“I meant it when I told Mr. Goudge I wished for a drink,” Miss Blackman said. She looked up at him suspiciously. “I do not recall you asking for a dance.”
