And it was impossible to believe that boy and this man could be the same person. Except they were.
She supposed it was the fire that had changed him. He'd been there that night, and badly burned. She'd known this, of course. But knowing and seeing were different things entirely.
"Miss Hale?" Mr. Fairchild was watching her.
"Forgive me. I am acquainted with Lord Blackwood." The words felt thin. "He was a friend of my late brother."
"I see." Mr. Fairchild paused. "Well, I suspect that acquaintance has changed somewhat. Blackwood is not, by all accounts, a man given to friendliness these days."
No. No, he was not.
She looked across the ballroom. The Marquess of Blackwood stood at the far wall, a glass in his hand, speaking to no one. He appeared to be watching the room with disinterest, perhaps even boredom. But there was something tense and guarded about his demeanor.
So perhaps not bored, but…watchful? As if sensing her attention, his gaze shifted to meet hers.
Alarm jolted through her. Her stomach dropped the way it did when she missed a step on the stairs. His expression didn't change, and his look lasted only briefly before he turned away.
Estella let out a sharp breath.
"Come," Mr. Fairchild said, offering his arm. "The next set is forming, and I do hope you’ll do me the honor of a dance."
She managed a smile and took his arm. Mr. Fairchild led her into the dance. And she did her very best to ignore the brooding, handsome figure standing alone at the edge of the room.
2
Sebastian’s left hand twitched, so he clenched it into a fist and then forced it to relax. It was a trick he’d learned to deal with the spasms.
Meanwhile, his right hand clutched a glass so tightly, there was a chance it might shatter.
But that wasn’t due to a spasm, just sheer anger. With himself, of course.
But really. He’d had one rule going into this evening. Do not interact with the girl.
He was here to watch. To protect. To swoop in if she was in danger. But he wasn’t supposed to talk to her. And it went without saying that he shouldn’t touch.
His fingers clenched again, and he fought the urge to give his left hand a good shake. It had a tendency to spasm like this when he’d spent too long gripping his horse’s reins or writing at his desk. And now he could add to that list. The nerves in his hand reacted violently to the merest touch of Estella Hale, which only served to prove what he feared.
He'd held her for too long.
Sebastian stood at the far end of the ballroom and replayed the last thirty seconds, dissecting his own failures.
Three seconds. Perhaps four. That was how long his hands had remained on her arms after he'd caught her. Long enough to feel the delicate bones of her shoulders beneath the fabric. Long enough to catalogue the exact shade of blue her eyes turned when they went wide with surprise.
They were darker than he'd expected. They’d appeared almost violet in the candlelight.
He’d held her long enough to notice that she smelled of soap and rosewater, and, more importantly…
That the gown she was wearing didn't fit.
It was made of pale green silk, which did little for her complexion, and was clearly altered. But what had made his anger spike was the fact that the bodice sat too loose, which meant she'd lost weight since the last fitting. Which meant she wasn't eating enough. Which… He already knew because he'd made inquiries with the Langley housekeeper not three months ago and had been informed that Miss Hale frequently skipped meals when the household budget grew tight.
She skipped meals so Charlotte wouldn’t have to go without.
His jaw tightened. There was no reason she ought to be going hungry, not when he’d found ways to fill the kitchen’s coffers. But he supposed her blasted father had gotten wind of that coin too.
It seemed no matter how subversive his tactics, the old man could sniff out funds like a money-hungry bloodhound.
He toyed with the glass in his hand. Or perhaps one of the servants had told their master. His eyes narrowed. If that was the case, he’d have to find a way to get them out or on his payroll.
