“What’s wrong?” Patience asked as soon as she reached him.
Nicholas furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?” Nothing was wrong. In fact, this could possibly be one of the happiest evenings of his life. He opened his mouth to say as much but stopped.
He couldn’t share any information about his time with Mercy until he had a clear understanding from both her and her parents.
Patience took his arm. “You look as though a ghost is going to come sneaking about the corner at any moment.”
“Have you seen Lady Mercy?”
Ottersby nodded. “I’ve arranged to dance a set with her later.”
Patience pulled on Nicholas’s sleeve. “She looked as though she was expecting a ghost as well. What has happened between the two of you?”
He had kissed her soundly in the drawing room, and her touch had healed things that had been broken since he was seventeen. That was what had happened. “What do you mean, she looks like she is expecting a ghost?”
Patience frowned and glanced around them for prying eyes. No one was especially close, but they couldn’t exactly get away from everyone either. “I don’t know exactly. She was pale and skittish, glancing around as if something frightening was around the corner. If I didn’t know better, I would think she was some sad maiden dragged from a dungeon and pressed into playing mistress of the ball. Her parents were cordial, but even theyseemed less enthusiastic than the last time we met.”
“Where is she?” He needed to see her himself. Mercy didn’t need to be pressed into balls. Balls were where she came alive.
“I believe she is dancing with Lord Dowdle at the moment,” Ottersby said. “But I agree with Patience. Something is wrong. Did you do something to upset the family?”
The light in the ballroom faded, and the niggling worry that had gnawed at the back of his mind since Mercy hadn’t returned to the drawing tore through him. He shook his head slightly and blinked. Had he done something to upset the family? He put a hand to the back of his neck and inhaled deeply. He’d thought... Well, Mercy had led him to believe she’d wanted that kiss...
But that wasn’t the problem, was it? She was young, almost as young as he’d been when Lady Plymton had entered his life. He, of all people, should have protected her innocence at all costs. He searched the ballroom once again. Where was she? Just as he was about to give up and ask Patience where she had seen Mercy last, the crowd of dancers parted, and there she was.
Lord Dowdle had his hand on her back, and she smiled up at him, but he could see in the stiffness of her shoulders and the redness around her eyes that something had upset her. Patience had explained Mercy’s appearance perfectly. Like she had been dragged out of a dungeon.
Those few minutes of bliss had him dreaming of a future with Mercy, but less than an hour later, Mercy looked as if she were ill. He glanced at her neck. It was bare. No emeralds, no pearls, and even from here, he could tell, no silver chain.
He had his answer.
Nicholas had made enough plans in his life to know when one wasn’t going to work out. There would be no engagement announced at supper. Not at this ball, and to Mercy? Perhaps never. The room darkened further, as if each chandelier hadbeen replaced by a single candle. What had he done? For weeks, he’d managed to court Lacy Mercy in a controlled, public manner. But in the end, he had succumbed to his same, disgraceful self. He had kissed her. Kissed her thoroughly. And his intent in that kiss was very different from the kisses he had shared with Lady Plymton. His kisses at seventeen had been young and inexperienced. They were experimental, curious, and had more to do with the fact that he wanted to kiss someone, anyone, than the fact that he wanted to kiss a particular person.
His time in the army had taught him restraint and loss. One of the keys to having restraint was not to surround yourself with temptation. He had known the risks going into this courtship, and he had still chosen a woman who enticed him, instead of one he could have more easily resisted. He had made all of the mistakes, and look where it had brought him.
When Mercy told the story of her life, Nicholas would be her villain. She would no longer be the trusting and optimistic woman who’d enchanted him at every turn. Nicholas had wounded her, and he should have known better.
Patience put an arm on his shoulder. “Nicholas, what’s wrong? What happened?”
“I need to speak to her.”
“And you shall.” Ottersby stepped slightly in front of the two of them, effectively blocking Nicholas’s view of the ballroom. His shoulders broadened, as if to protect Nicholas from the sight of what was happening behind them. “The night is still young. But for this set, let’s find a quiet place to regroup.”
Understanding eked its way into Nicholas’s brain. Ottersby was not blocking his view of the ballroom. He was blocking the ballroom from viewing Nicholas. What must he look like? Not like a man who had been dragged away from a dungeon, for no part of him felt as though he’d escaped something. No. He was headed in the opposite direction—toward the dungeon—and hehad no possibility of ever being freed.
Ottersby was right. It was time to retreat.
“Most likely,” Nicholas said, “servants will be the only ones in the entrance hall.”
Ottersby nodded and took him by the elbow, steering him out of the ballroom. The path to the entrance hall was simple and familiar. He knew this house almost as well as some of his less-used estates. Still, he managed to stumble, and Ottersby tightened his grip.
There was no one in the hall, other than the hired servant he had seen earlier. The young man caught their eye and quickly looked away. The only thing he knew about Nicholas was that he was a duke. He wouldn’t bother them.
The entrance hall was bare of any furniture, so Ottersby led him to a window that looked out on the street and propped him on the thick sill. “Sit for a moment.”
Nicholas nodded and dropped to the narrow piece of wood. He sank his head back against the cool glass of the window, then closed his eyes and inhaled.
“You look unwell,” Patience said, her voice a floating cloud of concern somewhere above his head. “Perhaps we should go.”
