But even as they continued the likelihood of a match, and what it would do to heighten their own status, Amelia remained quiet, her head turned towards London passing by outside. She could not understand how they could speak about her like she was something on display. How her dance with one man heightened her appeal—why she evenneededappeal.
It all swirled in her heart until she struggled to breathe.
***
Alone in his study, Graham watched his brandy as it caught the low candlelight, turning the liquid a brandished copper. His head was heavy with thoughts and turmoil, and his stomach was knotted. He sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face.
The door opened slowly with a creak, and his mother’s face appeared, that careful smile on her lips that he had long grown used to.
“You are alone,” she noted.
He nodded. “Owen returned to his own home after he talked of Lady Eleanor all the way home.”
Felicity laughed softly as she entered the room further. The door closed behind her, and Graham had the odd sense that he was trapped. Yet he was, even without his mother there, for he could not stop thinking about his dance with Miss Hawthorne and how she had stirred feelings in him he thought himself incapable of having.
“You appear troubled,” Felicity said, eyeing him knowingly. “Does it have anything to do with your dance tonight with Miss Hawthorne?”
“No,” he answered too quickly to even fool his mother.
She only smiled a little kinder and sat down on the other side of his desk. “You only come in here to brood when you are deep in thought or working, and I see no papers out.”
“I am not brooding,” he said sharply. But his walls were high, and yet Miss Hawthorne had peeked over them, found a weak part and nudged a hole in it even if she did not realize it. Yet… he carried tragedy in his bones, brought a curse with him that he could not shed.
Silence settled around them for a moment before Felicity spoke again. “Graham, I saw how you danced with her. I have never seen you move so naturally, so at ease. The stiffness and tension you often carry… it all disappeared. Why does that scare you?”
“It does not,” he sighed.
“I believe it does, for you carry that tension now. Something about tonight has bothered you so why will you not confide in your mother about it?”
His defenses only rose as he toyed with his brandy glass.
“Graham.” His mother’s voice was soft, imploring. “Do you not believe that it is time you settled down? You have a dukedom—have had one for many years now—and that requires an heir. Do you not wish to be happy, to know the Blackthorn dukedom is secure within our family?”
“Iamhappy,” he curtly told his mother. “I do not need you to meddle. One dance with one lady of the ton does not mean anything. I do not have intentions to pursue Miss Hawthorne—or any other lady for that matter.”
“And yet you asked her to dance,” Felicity answered gently. “That means something. Not the dance itself, or how you looked, but that you had the thought toask, that youdid. Something about her loosened that question in you when, for five years, others have not.”
“Mother.” His voice was sharp, a warning, and she nodded as if knowing she was pushing him to a limit. Standing up, she smoothed her dress down.
“I only implore you to think of your responsibilities. Daphne shall marry well one day, but I wish for my eldest son to be happyanddutiful.”
Graham did not answer her, only staring at his drink.
“Goodnight, Graham,” she murmured, leaving his study quietly. Once she had gone, he exhaled, his tight frown loosening into something softer. He did not know what to do—how to even begin untangling this new feeling he had not let even plant a seed within his heart before. And yet despite his harsh response to his mother, there was the warmth of Miss Hawthorne’s hand in his, the gentle smile she had given him, even as she herself had looked confused, and no matter how much he tried to distract himself from that, her smile remained.
And deep within him, Graham felt a pulse of longing.
He chased it away by finally drinking his brandy.
CHAPTER FIVE
The morning after the Smith ball, Amelia entered the breakfast hall, finding the usually loud table deathly silent. There was happiness in her heart, having spent most of the night awake and replaying her dance with the duke.
But even Clara was not speaking, her eyes downcast as she ate in silence. Elizabeth looked pained, as Amelia shot her younger sister a questioning look.
As she passed her father’s seat at the head of the table, she could not help but notice his stiff shoulders.
“Father?” she asked. “Is something amiss?”
