“I can’t allow you to entangle yourself with that woman.Again. I simply won’t stand by and let it happen! Alexander, look at me, you wretch.”
“I loved her once,” Alexander insisted, turning away. “And… and she was very fond of me.”
Panic bloomed in Henry’s chest. He crossed the room, angling himself so that Alexander had to look at him. His brother tried to look away, and Henry grabbed him by the shoulders.
“Lady Diana Lockwell – although of course she was Miss Diana Rubeshall then, do you recall? – nearly drove you to madness. I dread to think of what you might have done if we hadn’t watched you.”
“It wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t sprung the engagement on me like that,” Alexander argued. “Reading about it in theGazettelike I did… well, it was awful. I thought she loved me. I was young and stupid, and she was…”
“She was evil.”
“Oh, come on, Henry.Evil? Really?”
Alexander shook his shoulders out of his brother’s grip, moving to take the next shot.
Henry’s heart was thudding, and he felt sick. Lady Lockwell – who had been Miss Rubeshall, and not even the first Miss Rubeshall – was a tall, blonde woman, not exactlybeautifulin the way that Society preferred, but striking, nonetheless. She was charming, forthright, and remarkably clever, and was considered likely to do well in her first Season.
Alexander had been smitten. They all assumed that he, in his longing for love and family, would marry first out of them all. Being a third son, the old Duke seemed content enough to let his son go for a Rubeshall dowry, which was not inconsiderable.
Alexander had pursued her, and she’d coquetted and led him on. They’d danced together again and again at balls, sometimes even a shockingthree or fourdances an evening, at some of the more informal gatherings. The match had seemed a surety.
And then Miss Rubeshall’s engagement to Lord Lockwell was announced in theGazette.
Alexander reeled, as did the fashionable world. But what was merely a subject for idle chatter a few gossip columns almost spelled the end of the world for Henry’s little brother.
He remembered Alexander curled up in bed, sobbing as if his heart would break.
“Why would she do this to me, Henry? I thought she loved me. She said that she did.”
Henry would happily have gouged out lovely Diana’s heart with his own bare hands. He had it on good authority that Katherine had accidentally-on-purpose spilled wine on one of the girl’s frocks and cut her stone dead at Almack’s.
But that was the limit of their revenge. Miss Rubeshall became Lady Lockwell, and Alexander’s broken heart was gradually pieced together.
The woman was widowed now, and had been after only two years of marriage, and Henry would be damned if he would see her get her hooks into him again.
“Not her,” he said firmly. “You must see that, Alexander.”
Alexander sighed. “Very well, very well. What about you? Do you have anyone in mind? Anyone caught your eye at all?”
To his horror, Henry immediately thought of Eleanor Fairfax. Pretty, clever Eleanor Fairfax, who did not like him and did not want him meddling in her business – secular or otherwise.
“No,” he lied smoothly. It was easier that way. He’d talk to Alexander about it when the poor man didn’t have his head stuffed full of lonely fears and Lady Diana Lockwell. “No one at all, I’m afraid.”
Chapter Six
“That will do, I think,” Eleanor said. She’d intended it to sound firm, but it only came out tremulous and faint. “I’m sure I’m ready now.”
Aunt Florence had insisted on dressing Eleanor for the ball. The end result was a soft blue silk-and-satin confection, trimmed with feathers and beads, with seed-pearls tipping the capped sleeves, and a pair of matching pink slippers.
It was certainly a beautiful dress, and an expensive present from her aunt, but Eleanor felt… well, overdressed. She thought longingly of her neat, simple burgundy gown, with long sleeves and no trimmings.
“I’ll tell you when you’re ready,” Aunt Florence chuckled, waving away her maids. The women dipped curtsies and flitted away, leaving Aunt Florence and Eleanor alone.
“This… this is very kind of you, Aunt,” Eleanor murmured. “It’syourbirthday, and all I got you…”
“You, my dear, spend hours sewing handkerchiefs for me,” Aunt Florence said firmly. “You made that beautiful shawl, which must have taken youweeksto make. Compare that with the dress I bought you, which took me no time at all. Your gifts are greatly superior to mine, my dear girl, let me assure you.”
Eleanor relaxed a little at that. “You’re very kind, Aunt.”
