Graham’s breath grew labored.
The gasps of ‘I am sorry, Graham, I am sorry, I did not mean—’ and the footsteps of his friend fleeing the scene, even Graham screamed his grief to the sky, screamed his pleas for Thomas to come back, to help him, toplease, please,help him, unsure if he asked for help himself or for Henry, or both.
The sound of a sharp, jaunty violin knocked him back to his senses, and Amelia was looking at him before Daphne tugged her attention away. Graham reached for the wine that had been brought over without him quite realizing, and drank deeply.
***
Lady Beatrice Ashworth could not focus on anything over the aching of her heart. Across the room, Lord Owen conversed with the beautiful Lady Eleanor. Beatrice’s confidence shattered all over again, as it did every time she saw them. Her guilt over helping Cassandra, her best friend since they had learned to dance together in the Kensingtons house several summers ago, destroy the Duke and Duchess of Blackthorn was only distracted by her jealousy.
But beneath the jealousy was simply a deep, awful ache. An ache of longing for a man she had pined after all of the last Season, while Lady Eleanor had danced with many men. Beatrice had watched Lord Owen’s interest be skewered towards Lady Eleanor, and how the Duke and Duchess of Blackthorn all but endorsed their courtship.
“Oh, do not tell me you are weeping over him again,” Cassandra sighed, startling her. “I have told you before, Beatrice, that the way to get what you want is totake it. The longer your wait staring at him the worse your silly little infatuation will get.”
“Infatuation,” Beatrice echoed. “And what is it you have for His Grace?”
“That is love, of course. Except I am willing to do something about that wretched girl he calls his wife. You do not have the courage to ruin Lady Eleanor.”
Beatrice flinched. Cassandra was supposed to be her friend but too much lately she had begun to sound like Beatrice’s mother.Heavens, Beatrice, there are plenty beautiful ladies of the ton you will compete against. What do you suppose you have to woo the suitors? Merely look at Lady Cassandra. Beautiful, intelligent, and she knows what it takes to succeed in the marriage mart. What areyoudoing to ensure a good match?
The comparison tactic her mother had been using, pitting Beatrice against her best friend, had been whittling Beatrice down, down, untilthatwas why she did not pursue Lord Owen. She did not feel good enough, but a part of her did not want to take him away from Lady Eleanor when he gazed at her the way he was now.
If that did not make her ruthless then she could endure that.
What she could not endure was being the ruin of another lady’s happiness.
“Beatrice,” Cassandra cooed, “do not be simple. We are friends, are we not? We may help one another and secure the matches we want. Where is the friend I had who helped me? Who felt rage at being scorned by Lord Owen? Who wished ailment upon Lady Eleanor for swooping in whenso manymen had invited her to dance, to court, but she justhadto choose Lord Owen?”
When Beatrice said nothing, Cassandra moved to her other side. “Do you think Lady Eleanor knows how much you like him? Do you not believe they laugh about you behind your back? I do not wish to see you made a laughing stock, Beatrice.”
“What,” she whispered, as guests mingled around her, blocking her view of Lord Owen and Lady Eleanor. “What would you like me to do?”
“It is rather simple,” her friend said. “Do you recall the dalliance Lord Ambrose stated he and Her Grace had? I am sosureshe had told him to meet her in the hedge maze. Imagine His Grace’s upset when he realizes his wife had never gone there to speak with him at all. Imagine that he finds out his wife wanted to be courted by another man. He was the convenient of choices.”
“But you said that she orchestrated their meeting,” Beatrice murmured, confused at her friend’s constantly changing ploys.
“Well, when a woman is caught, she must think on her feet. Ofcourseher intentions changed course most rapidly.”
“Cassandra,” Beatrice whispered, “can we not leave them—”
“Lady Ashworth, did you say that Her Grace wished to be courted by Lord Ambrose?” Cassandra asked loudly, drawing her into the rumor whether she liked it or not. Beatrice’s face burned red. “And that she never wanted to meet His Grace at all at my own garden party?”
Around them, the crowd died down, listening. The murmurings began at once, and Beatrice’s stomach dropped at the sight of the Duke of Blackthorn casting a look at his wife, betrayal and pain flashing in his face.
“These are the games of the ton, Beatrice,” Cassandra said, her voice low and threatening. “And I suggest you either play or get comfortable with being on the wrong side of me.”
***
Amelia heard the whispers pick up in the drawing room and escaped before she could even grasp what was being said. She could not handle yetanother thing. Whatever had been said was something Graham had heard, for he fixed her with a look of betrayal, and something else she could only question if it was a sense of being right.
Amelia spun on her heel and broke out onto a small balcony, closing the doors behind her and drawing over to the rail. Before her, the townhouses of London spilled out down the street, candlelight glimmering in windows. Carriages clattered past, full of happy couples and happy families—at least that was what she thought. That was what she told herself, for she hoped that somebody was happy in London that night.
How terribly dramatic, she thought, laughing sadly to herself.
A door opened and closed behind her.
“Daphne, I am quite well—”
She broke off, turning around to find Graham standing there, his face tight and pained in the darkness. Across the balcony, he gazed at her. He looked conflicted, as though he perhaps wished to remain distanced from her yet his concern took over. The night around them was cool, pressing around them, and yet the silence was so, so unbearable.
