He inclined his head again and hurried across the lawn and to the path where he had seen the approaching duchess, his heart filled with a mix of warmth and ruefulness. He wished he could have stayed for longer and he turned and looked at the distant figure of Miss Brooke where she stood, longing to see her and talk to her again within the hours ahead.
Chapter 10
“Robert, look there! Is that not most charming?”
Mama’s voice was haughtily refined where she stood beside him in the ballroom at Averhill Manor. Robert turned to look at the painting she was looking at, his eyes hurting a little at the intense light in the ballroom. The room was lit with over a hundred candles, their light multiplied by the crystals and mirrors which were draped on the chandeliers and adorning the walls, respectively. The effect was blinding, and the loudness of the noise hurt his ears.
“Very charming,” Robert replied. The painting was a view from near the town of Bath, looking in the direction of Averhill manor. He wished for a moment that Miss Brooke was there—he would have valued her opinion on the artwork.
“Ah! There is Lady Bardwell. I must go over to greet her.”
“Quite so,” Robert murmured. His mother glided off across the ballroom, her gray-blue gown elegant and stylish, becoming her well and matching her gracefully-arranged white hair. Robert stood where he was, relieved that his mother had not insisted that he accompany her. He drew a deep breath, shutting his eyes for a second. He always found balls and parties tiring.
The noise of talk and laughter crashed in on him like a wave and he leaned back against the wall, steadying himself. He had avoided balls and parties for years and he had not realized just how overwhelming it would all be when he attended one. His shirt felt scratchy, though it was fine linen, and he fiddled with the cuff, a habit he thought he had shaken when he was at Cambridge.
He looked down at his outfit. The black tailcoat that he wore had the fashionable cut, cutaway in front and long at the back. He wore black trousers too—his mother might say it wasirregular to wear mourning garb after five years, but she could not stop him. She, after all, still wore the grays and navy-blues of half-mourning, and Papa had been gone for much longer.
He stood straighter as he spotted his mother and Lady Bardwell moving across the ballroom. He thought that they were heading towards him, but they were moving towards the refreshments table and his spine slumped in relief. The soft sound of laughter sounded from near the door and he looked over, heart thumping.
Where is Miss Brooke? I hope she will join us this night, he thought wonderingly. She had a habit of avoiding large gatherings, not having attended the tea and avoiding most of the people during the dinner. His heart ached with the thought that she might have decided to remain in her chambers instead of joining the guests at the ball. The ball would be tedious at best if she was not there, he thought, then flushed.
Guilt washed over him as a tingle of excitement moved down his spine at the thought of seeing her.
As much as Edward had suggested that Elizabeth would not mind his interest in Miss Brooke, Robert could not help feeling guilty whenever he thought about her. It felt wrong to feel such excitement, to keep waiting for Miss Brooke to appear. And yet, he reminded himself, Elizabeth would not want him to be sad, to be in perpetual mourning. She hated sad occasions and she always tried to lighten the mood. She would, he felt sure, be glad to see him happy.
“Robert! Are you enjoying the evening thus far?” Victoria asked him. Robert shrugged.
“It is a little too early to say yet,” he told her, grinning wryly. Victoria was dressed in a dark blue ballgown, the silken fabric covered with a layer of dark gauze. Her black hair was arranged in a bun and decorated with dark blue velvet in a thick hairband. She beamed dazzlingly; her smile bright on her long oval face.
“I suppose that is true. James and I are at the refreshments table if you care to join us?” she asked.
Robert lifted a brow. “I think I prefer to wait here a moment, sister,” he said carefully. She grinned.
“When the table is safe, I think you mean,” she jested. She had guessed that he was avoiding Lady Bardwell and her family.
“Mm.”
Victoria smiled; her black eyes sparkling. They were identical to their father’s eyes and Robert’s heart ached. He wished that Papa was there to guide him.
They stood silently for a moment, and Robert’s gaze wandered to the stairs. Lord and Lady Averhill were standing there, greeting their guests as they drifted down to the ballroom, and every time someone came in, his gaze strayed to the doors. He longed to see Miss Brooke. Just the thought made his heart race, and his breath catch in his throat.
“You must go to the baths while you are here,” Victoria informed him as they stood silently, watching the doorway. “The water is most restorative,” James said. “I plan to go tomorrow; discreetly, of course,” she added with a grin.
“Quite so, sister.”
They both chuckled.
“Robert! Good evening,” James greeted him informally, shaking his hand.
“Good evening,” Robert replied, taking the proffered hand and giving it a firm shake. He listened as James and his sister discussed something; his own eyes fixed on the stairs.
As he watched, a woman appeared there. He had not seen the door open, but it must have slid open a crack, because Miss Brooke appeared at the top of the stairs. He stared at her, drawing a sharp breath in. She was clad in a long gown of pale blue muslin, the overskirt made from gauze and filmy, just a shade lighter than her gray-blue eyes. Her thick chestnut hairwas drawn back in a chignon, a blue ribbon its only adornment. She seemed to float down the stairs, her gaze slightly unfocused, and he stared up at her. Her willowy form moved down the stairs, flowing like water. He frowned at the expression on her face, his heart skipping as she came closer, and he could better see what she thought. Her face was tense, her eyes round and huge-seeming against her pale skin, her lips in a small moue that could have indicated fright.
She was walking at a slow, measured pace, but in her focused gaze, he could see that she was straining not to run. He had been afraid, as well, walking into the crowded, loud space, so he could only imagine how much worse it was for her. She seemed to have been out of society for at least as long as he was himself. He frowned, making a note to try and find out about why. She did not wear black, and so he thought she was not in mourning, but perhaps she had been so. Edward—while he said he did not know her very well—was, surely, the person to inquire.
Miss Brooke was at the bottom of the stairs. She gazed about, seeming a little stunned, and Robert stepped forward, aching to go to her. Just as he crossed the room, however, a voice called him from behind.
“Robert! Son. Do come over here. Lady Bardwell and Marina have a question for you.”
