Page 25 of A Lady of Conscience

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The Marquess of Deane’s sprawling house in Mayfair boasted one of the grandest ballrooms in London. A trio of enormous imported crystal chandeliers hung from a domed ceiling that had been artfully painted to resemble the summer sky—all white clouds, shimmering sunlight, and flawless blue heavens. The guests gathered beneath it were no less illustrious. Noblemen and women of every rank were in attendance, each of them immaculately tailored, exquisitely coiffed, and dripping in jeweled cufflinks, diamond pins, and costly parures.

James crossed the crowded dance floor as the orchestra tuned up for another waltz. He had promised this one to Lady Augusta, the marquess’s daughter.

The two of them had first met last year at a society dinner party. They had been seated beside each other at table. A pleasant enough experience.

It had occurred to James then that Lady Augusta possessed all the qualities he desired in a wife. He hadn’t acted on the observation. Despite her inarguable perfections, she had failed to stir his interest. However, in the aftermath of Hannah Heywood’s stinging rejection, James’s thoughts had once again turned to the estimable Lady Augusta. Not eagerly, by any means, but with a certain sense of resignation.

Whatever tumult he felt in his heart, he was resolved to do his duty. There would be no more unplanned deviations from the course he’d set for his life.

“Lord St. Clare!” Another young lady hailed him as he passed. A delicate blond, fair of face and figure, she wore a lilac silk ball gown and three gleaming strands of amethysts.

It was Bertrice Paley, the sister of Silas Paley, one of James’s classmates at Eton. James had once stayed with Silas’s family during the school holidays. A tedious visit, during which Silas had peppered James with questions about the Beresford family’s scandalous history.

James grudgingly stopped to acknowledge her. “Miss Paley.” He bowed.

She curtsied briefly before batting him with her lace fan in mock displeasure. “I didn’t know you were in London, sir. You might have called on my brother and me. We are both in town at present, with my father.”

“How is Sir Andrew?” James asked. The baronet was afflicted with gout, an ailment from which he’d been suffering for many years.

“Poorly,” Miss Paley said. “He remains at home this evening. Indeed, he’s threatening to leave London to take the waters. I have been attempting to dissuade him, but he insists we will depart within the week. It is most inconvenient.”

“Please send him my regards.”

“You may deliver them yourself, my lord, when you visit us.” She dropped a calculating glance to her dance card. “Shall I put you down for a march?”

“I would be honored,” James said. Taking his leave of Miss Paley, he walked on.

Up ahead, Lady Augusta was just leaving the floor, having completed a country dance on the arm of a duke’s son. She murmured something to the young gentleman before detaching herself and moving toward James. “Lord St. Clare. I believe this waltz is yours.”

James smiled. There was no warmth in it. He felt tonight just as he’d felt at every engagement he’d attended since returning to London—utterly empty. “I am come to claim it, my lady.”

Lady Augusta smiled serenely in return. Her chestnut ringlets were caught up in pearl combs, revealing the swanlike grace of her long neck. She was an objectively beautiful young woman, in addition to her copious other charms. She had elegance in abundance. Confidence. Poise. Add to that, her wealth and pedigree, and it was plain why so many considered her to be the catch of the season.

She permitted James to lead her back onto the floor. They exchanged a bow and a curtsy as the orchestra struck up a waltz.

It was Strauss.

James recognized the melody as he stepped forward, taking Lady Augusta’s right hand in his and setting his other hand at her waist. But it wasn’t the melody he heard as he led her into the first swirling turn. His sullen heart overshadowed the music with quite another waltz. The Lanner waltz he’d danced with Hannah Heywood in Bath.

An aching swell of bitterness constricted his chest.

It took an effort not to succumb to it.

All his life, James had witnessed his parents all-consuming love for each other. It was an emotional anomaly, he’d believed. So rare as to be unattainable. Never once had he contemplated meeting a girl who would inspire such impassioned feelings within his own jaded soul. He had not thought it possible.

Until Hannah.

A young lady so beautiful and sweet, he’d known almost instantly, despite sense, despite strategy, that she was the one who had been waiting for him all along.

But it was impossible.

And not only because she wasn’t right for him, but because she didn’t want him.

Swallowing his bitterness, James refocused his attention on Lady Augusta. It was she who best suited his plans for the future. She was ideal in appearance, in behavior, in bloodline. And he felt…

Nothing.