Page 13 of A Lady of Conscience

It was Lord St. Clare.

Chapter Four

James had been invited to the Carletons’ ball along with the rest of his family. He hadn’t planned on attending. He’d already indulged his unwilling attraction to Hannah Heywood far more than was good for him.

By rights, he should have left Bath days ago. He should have returned to Worth House or to Beasley Park. Better yet, he should have traveled to London. It was there among the beau monde where he would find the bride best suited to his future plans. A lady who would aid him in rehabilitating the Beresford name, not add a further complication to his efforts.

But James hadn’t done any of those things. He’d remained in Bath, brooding over his conflicted feelings with increasing aggravation.

He wasn’t generally an indecisive man. In the past, he’d always known his own mind. Decisions had come easily to him, every choice made to advance his goals and further his familial ambitions. He’d never felt himself at odds with a course he’d chosen. And he’d certainly never had to rationalize a bad choice to suit his own selfish desires.

The act of doing so left a sour feeling in his stomach. But there was no favorable alternative. Not when his attraction to Miss Heywood was affecting his mood, his work, and even his sleep.

Having made up his mind, James summoned his faithful valet, Smith, to help him change.

A short time later, James arrived at the Carletons’ house, his muscles tight with a bitter resolve. A buoyant country dance was playing when he entered the ballroom. The ball was already half over. The candles in the two large chandeliers had burned low, and the air was redolent with the fragrance of beeswax floor polish, perspiration, and eau de cologne.

As luck would have it, it was James’s younger brother, Ivo, who first spied his arrival.

“You dratted scoundrel,” he said, approaching James with a smile. “Must you always be so disobliging? That’s twenty pounds I’m out.”

James arched a supercilious brow at his brother.

Ivo came to a halt in front of him. Like all the Beresford males, he was possessed of fair hair and gray eyes, with a tall, athletic figure. “Kate wagered me that you’d appear before the supper dance. I bet that you’d come afterward, if you came at all.”

“The supper dance is next, I take it,” James said, unamused by his brother and sister’s antics.

“A waltz.” Ivo’s eyes danced with gleeful humor behind his spectacles. “Shall I direct you to Miss Heywood’s parents?”

James didn’t rise to his younger sibling’s bait. It wasn’t the first time Ivo had nettled him about Miss Heywood. James had, initially, strenuously objected to Ivo’s courtship of Meg Burton-Smythe. Ivo naturally took great pleasure at the prospect of James abandoning his long-held principles for what he perceived as an equally unsuitable young lady.

“That won’t be necessary,” James said coolly. He cast his gaze over the room, finding Captain Heywood and his wife seated near the bank of windows. They appeared to be watching the dancing.

“Miss Heywood isn’t with them,” Ivo informed him, as though James hadn’t eyes enough to see for himself. “She’s danced every set since the opening polonaise. Lord Fennick is partnering her for this one.” He shot a mischievous glance toward the dancers. “A handsome devil if I say so myself.”

James stiffened. He knew Lord Fennick. They had been at Oxford together. They hadn’t been friends then, or even friendly. Exactly the opposite. Fennick had frequently made sly, mocking references to the Beresford family’s scandalous history, perpetually trying—and failing—to provoke James to anger.

Fennick had also been instrumental in getting James blackballed from the university’s informal boxing club. It had been a well-aimed blow, considering James’s skill at the sport. One that Fennick had loudly attributed to the purported questionableness of James’s pedigree.

Following his brother’s gaze, James found his former rival at the end of the long line of dancers, wearing the same oily smile and equally oily mustache he’d worn at school. Miss Heywood was positioned across from him. Clad in a white, rose-trimmed ball gown, she was smiling shyly up at her partner as he turned her in a wide circle before they separated and resumed their place in the line. The delicate flounces of lace at her bosom and hem fluttered as she moved.

James’s chest tightened. He was struck anew by the inherent quietness and grace in her person. She was lovely, of course. But it wasn’t that which had beguiled him so thoroughly against his will—against his self-interest and his reason. It was the softness in her. The tender gravity in her gaze, and the reticence in her manner.

He had been pursued all his life. From boyhood, girls had been throwing their handkerchiefs at him. He’d long become adept at avoiding all efforts to entrap him into matrimony. But Miss Heywood hadn’t made any attempts in that vein. Quite the reverse. She often took pains to evade his company.

As he looked at her, James experienced a rare, and totally unfamiliar flicker of masculine insecurity. What if it wasn’t only shyness that made her behave as she did toward him? What if she simply didn’t like him?

The music swelled as the country dance neared its end.

Dismissing his doubts, James headed toward Miss Heywood’s parents.

Ivo followed him for a few steps. “Good lord. You really came for her sake, didn’t you?”

James flashed his brother an arctic glare. “Have you nothing better to do?”

“What could be better than this?” Ivo wondered. “But have no fear. I won’t spoil your air of frozen dignity. I shall enjoy my triumph from afar until Meg returns from the ladies’ retiring room.”

“She has my sympathies,” James muttered.