He watched the scene unfold like one of those anthropologists he had heard lecture at school, expecting the girl to drop her eyes as she approached Fairleigh and offer him a coquettish smile. His breath caught in delighted surprise as she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, the diminutive girl—woman—prepared for battle.
Fairleigh gifted the girl’s mother with a half-hearted smile before escorting the young lady onto the dance floor. Henry tracked their movement, watching her attempt to catch Fairleigh’s attention as they spun across the floor. After a moment, he caught Henry's gaze, opening his eyes wide before rolling them towards the ceiling in a gesture of such exaggerated dismay that Henry recoiled. Fairleigh stopped, bowing to her before leaving her stranded, alone in the middle of the dance floor with a pink flush rising in her cheeks.
In four strides, Fairleigh was at Henry’s side. “What a nightmare, that one. Her father is an old friend of mine, so I took pity on her. At least she’ll get one dance tonight.”
Bile rose in Henry’s throat. “Badly done, Fairleigh. She’s humiliated.”
Fairleigh raised one eyebrow in a pompous gesture, and Henry was tempted to rip it directly off the man’s forehead. “Since when have you been the protector of young women?”
Henry winced. He had earned his reputation as a scoundrel from an early age, learning to place bets when he was barely out of the nursery and chasing women like a dog after a fox. He may be a scoundrel, but he took pains to preserve the dignity of any woman who crossed his path.
Didn’t he?
Fairleigh clapped his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I’m headed to White’s after this. I assume you’ll be joining me?”
Henry gave him a terse nod. His rounds through London’s finest gentlemen’s establishments would not stop simply to observe the sacred holiday. Henry always needed distraction, seeking comfort in the arms of the willing women who seemed to gravitate towards him. A fresh-faced innocent was of no interest to him, a ball merely an excuse to drink to excess and potentially discover an amenable young widow to warm his bed.
This poor girl should never have caught his eye, but somehow he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
Henry finally turned back to the girl. Her chest heaved as she watched Fairleigh’s retreat, pressing against the fabric of her gown as she blinked repeatedly. A horrid tightness built in Henry’s throat; how many times had he left a girl in tears on the dance floor? More than once he had rejected a lady for being too young, too homely, too innocent… He had never remained still for long enough to see the aftermath before, but had been gone before the pain hit their eyes. Shame rose inside him, burning his cheeks.
As though she felt his thoughts, the girl turned and met his eyes. Henry froze. They were liquid silver, the grey of water crashing on the rocks in the dead of winter. She held his gaze for a long beat, and he saw no shame, no sadness, only steely resolve.
Then she turned and walked onto the terrace.
His feet were moving before he recognized what he was doing. By the time he reached the terrace, the young woman with the haunting silver eyes was nowhere to be seen. A dusting of snow had fallen over the stone terrace, like the cook had spread powdered sugar over the rows of hedges and statues of the gardens behind the home. He scanned the space, searching for her, as though apologizing to her could help him atone for his past sins.
A flash of pink caught the periphery of his vision, moving past the hedges below. Henry walked swiftly along the path, the cold biting at his cheeks as he peered around every corner until he came upon a bench next to a frozen-over birdbath. He was momentarily stunned seeing the woman, her back to him and her hands braced on a bench.Her shoulders heaved as though she were sobbing, but he couldn’t hear a sound.
“Miss,” he said, and she whirled around. Henry gasped.
Her silver eyes were wide and panicked, her cheeks ghostly pale, lips tinged blue as her breath came in raspy puffs. She clutched at her gown, pulling at the fabric constraining her breasts.
“Can you breathe?” he asked, taking her hands away. They were clammy and cold.
She rocked her head, then nodded. “It’s—I—,” she stammered, tears beginning to stream from her eyes. She had laced herself tightly into her gown, the stays and corset pulled in an unholy amount.
“You need to breathe, miss.” As though she had somehow forgotten this crucial fact.
Again, she shook her head, several ruddy curls falling loose and whipping about her cheeks. “My heart—it’s too fast—”
Henry took her hands in his and stroked his thumbs over her palms. “Take deep breaths—”
“I can’t with this bloody dress!” She yanked her hands away and pulled at the bodice of her gown, stretching towards the buttons on the back but unable to reach them.
He became temporarily frozen. He was alone in a garden with a marriageable young lady as she pawed at her dress. This could end in a one-way trip to the vicar if he wasn’t careful.
But the fear in her eyes was too much for him to bear. “Is your dress too tight?”
“God, yes!”
Yet another phrase he had heard more than once in a garden, but under different circumstances. “Can I loosen the laces for you?”
She nodded furiously and turned to give him her back, momentarily stunning him with her unabashed trust in him as he attempted to work the buttons free. “I’m going to have to tear it—”
“Do it,please,” she hissed, and he wrenched the fabric apart, only to face a line of corset ties.
Henry groaned and tugged at the ties, but they were so strained he couldn’t pull the strings apart. “Hold still, I can’t—I can’t get them undone.”
