To say that, in the years since, she hadn’t thought of him and of what might have been would be untrue, but equally, not knowing how he’d changed over the years—as he most certainly would have; by her calculation, he was thirty now—she hadn’t felt she’d known him well enough to pine for something that might never have eventuated.
Besides, given he’d been stationed in Dublin and she’d heard that the social round was much the same there, at least in intent, she’d assumed that some enterprising young lady would have caught his eye by now.
Yet there he was, with no enterprising lady hanging on his arm, and for some benighted reason, she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from him.
The crowd between them shifted, groups rearranging, and she had a clear line of sight.
She stared, and as if sensing her regard, he turned his head and looked her way.
Their gazes collided.
And locked.
She felt it as a physical connection—a stunning blow, then being seized and held.
His gray gaze captured her; his presence commanded her awareness and consumed her every sense.
She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe as she fell into his gaze—and he fell into hers.
She couldn’t look away, and neither, it seemed, could he. Neither moved or signaled any awareness of the world around them.
The wordless connection held and swelled and gained intensity and weight.
Neither wanted to be the one to break it.
At the edge of her vision, she saw the ladies he’d been conversing with trying to regain his attention, in vain.
Yet he and she couldn’t simply stand there, trapped by memories in a snare of unrequited longing. At any second, people would see and realize…
She sensed movement to her right; someone was approaching.
With a massive effort, she hauled in a huge breath and swung her gaze that way. It landed on the complacent features of Gordon Delamere.
Melissa inwardly groaned, but she was too desperate for something—anything—to counter Julian’s grip on her senses to send Gordon off.
“Good evening, Miss North.” Gordon halted beside her, bowed, and reached for her hand.
Reacting by rote, she turned to him, murmured a greeting, and surrendered her fingers. To her horror, she felt giddy, her wits still whirling and her thoughts consumed by Carsely.
Good Lord! I need to find my feet!
Gordon was only a year or so older than she, yet since the start of the Season, he’d been assiduous in his attentions and annoyingly persistent despite her admittedly subtle discouragements.
Subtlety, one had to conclude, was wasted on Gordon.
True to form, he attempted to engage her in a conversation that might have been appropriate had she been eighteen. At twenty-three, she was past the age of even pretending an interest in a gentleman’s driving exploits, and with her senses still skittering after the impact of locking eyes with Carsely and her thoughts in disarray, she didn’t pay any attention to what Gordon was saying.
Unable to stop herself, from the corner of her eye, she glanced across the room. Her heart leapt as she found Julian—Carsely—still staring at her, but now, he was frowning.
What he was frowning about, she couldn’t guess, but doubted it boded well.
“I say, are you feeling quite the thing?”
She refocused on Gordon and found him peering rather concernedly at her face.
“You’re looking a trifle pale, and if you don’t mind me mentioning it, you seem a bit dazed.” Gordon glanced at the windows beside them. “Perhaps a turn on the terrace might help?”
Her heart was thumping uncomfortably, and she could barely form a coherent thought; cold fresh air on her face and a little time in a quieter space sounded divine. She gripped Gordon’s sleeve. “Yes—you’re right. I’m not feeling a hundred percent and could do with some air.”
