Sophia’s brow furrowed, but she said nothing more.
From the corner of his eye, Gabriel searched again for the young woman in garnet. She had moved, drifting toward the windows where moonlight filtered in. The shadows did not seem to concern her as she wandered alone aimlessly.
“You are distracted,” Sophia said softly, breaking his focus.
He turned to her with another shrug.
“I am assessing,” he said.
She sighed.
“You do that too often,” she said.
He gave a faint smile, one that rarely surfaced anymore.
“What else would I do?” asked dryly. “Socialize with these fine people?”
Sophia’s eyes flashed with agitation that Gabriel knew was not directed at him.
“Gabriel,” she said, touching his arm. “You are not what they say.”
Gabriel’s fierce scowl returned, and he shook his head.
“I know precisely what I am,” he said.
Sophia huffed, glaring sideways at the women he knew she wanted to consider friends.
“You are my brother,” she said.
Gabriel nodded, glancing around, forcing three gentlemen to whirl around quickly to avoid eye contact.
“And that is the only reason they have not turned us out,” he said. “I did not have to come and cause such awkwardness for you, Sister.”
James shifted his stance.
“You endured war abroad,” he said defensively. “And war again, returning. Few men would have held their heads so high.”
Gabriel shook his head, meeting his friend’s gaze firmly.
“Do not mistake necessity for honor,” he said. “I did nothing of spectacular value, James. I only performed my duties.” He paused as his eyes slid once more toward the window. The woman was gone.
He drew a breath through his nose, then exhaled slowly, pondering the strange disappointment he felt. Perhaps it had been no more than a passing interest. The product of loneliness dressed in civility. Still, he found his gaze moving through the crowd with renewed purpose. He would not pursue her. However, should their paths cross again, he would not look away.
***
Genevieve Barrett stood near the potted palms at the edge of the ballroom, close enough to hear her aunt but far enough to avoid drawing attention to herself. The suffocating combination of satin, lace, and overly sweet perfume suffocated her, but she remained still. Her features betrayed nothing beyond polite indifference.
The widowed Lady Victoria Harrington, regal in her plum-colored silk and ostrich plumes, snapped open her fan and gestured with it toward the entrance.
“There he is,” Victoria said. “The Earl of Mountwood. Pray, please refrain from gawking dear.”
Genevieve looked, of course, just as everyone else did. The tall man had only just arrived, and already the tide of whispers had begun. His scar, a cruel mark slashing down his right cheek, had not faded. Nor has the fascination it clearly evokes, she noted with mild interest. Women clutched their fans more tightly. Men watched with narrowed eyes. The earl was impervious to all of the curious spectators. His manner remained composed as he surveyed the room.
“He should have stayed hidden,” Victoria said. “It seems that his return has caused some disquiet.”
Genevieve studied him. With his broad shoulders and dark hair that was sprinkled at the temples with early silver, he had a bearing that needed no embellishment. Power clung to him not that of inherited title alone, but of something earned in less forgiving places. Yet it was not his scar that caught her attention. It was the way he observed the room. His eyes were not filled with disdain or arrogance, but rather with methodical attention. It seemed as if he were in search for someone, or perhaps, something. His eyes paused, moved on, and then returned. There was no idly curious glance. Each look was deliberate andintentional. After another moment, Genevieve recognized the look in his eyes. He was not looking for something inside. He was looking for a way to make his retreat.
“We are both intrusions,” Genevieve said, mostly to herself.
