Page 75 of Waiting for Love

“That is not the reason.” Benjamin stood before he said more than he should. “I’d better go look at the ballroom. And then find Peters and see what he wishes to do about it.”

*

First, he peered into the parlor. Good Lord. Young men must have emptied the flower shops. The room smelled like a summer garden. He plucked up the card from one of the more extravagant baskets. Not only young men. The Duke of Lythe. That was who she had been dancing with—the man whose words had given her such pleasure. But the duke was old. He stuck back the card. The bouquet beside it, pink tea roses, was much more tasteful. He tilted the vase to see the card. The Marquess of Ebersom. Ah, the man who couldn’t come at Twelfth Night. A political colleague of Jasper’s.

Two more baskets caught his attention because they were identical, set side-by-side, and contained an eye-pleasing variety of white flowers. Even the leaves were painted white. He went to check those cards as well, to see who the unfortunate suitors were to have had the same thought or bought from the same harried florist. But they were both from Hazard, not a suitor. One for Olivia and one for Alice. Now that he was close, he could see a single pink rose tucked in among the white flowers in Alice’s basket.

How extraordinarily kind. Alice had had the misfortune of debuting while Georgiana was still unattached. And now, she would be overshadowed at every ton function by Olivia. Yet Hazard had made the effort to show Alice he thought she was special.

Well, if it was true she had written his speech for him, she was.

Enough. Snooping around Olivia’s bouquets was pathetic. In another minute, if he did not leave, he would do something childish like mixing up the cards or pinching the heads off the flowers.

There were better ways to spend the morning after Napoleon’s defeat. And once things settled here, in the afternoon perhaps, he would borrow a gig and take Hannah to Kensington Gardens. There would be celebrations to entertain her, he was sure.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Georgiana had not exaggerated. There were more bouquets in the parlor than men Olivia had danced with at the ball. Which meant what? That she was a success? Hardly. It meant Jasper was important enough that his marriage to his mistress could be overlooked. All that worry for nothing.

Olivia had always known Jasper was universally well-liked. But now, it would not only be Jasper’s friendship that men sought. He was the Earl of Iversley. He was tied through Reg and Georgiana to the Duke of Hovington. Viscount Haslet was his closest friend. And thus, he stood at the intersection of a widespread web of both staunch Tories and influential Whigs. Any young man who managed to snare Olivia would find his consequence multiplied tenfold.

So long as nothing went wrong. So long as Vanessa continued to charm. The ton could be fickle.

She sniffed, picking up a few of the cards, reading them, then discarding them. That one particularly gaudy arrangement? From the Duke of Lythe. He could not be looking for influence. He had enough of his own. It was nice of Papa’s friend to send flowers, but she hoped he remembered he’d offered to take her riding. With all the excitement he was likely to forget.

Hazard had sent two baskets. One for Alice. He was the sweetest man. If only he could love Alice… The image the two embracing last night rose before her eyes. But that meant nothing. Hazard had embraced her, too. They were all overwhelmed by emotion.

Even Benjamin forgot himself. A shiver ran through her, remembering the way his fingertips had tickled her spine. The heat of his body. She’d thought for a moment he might kiss her.

What would it be like to let him hold her and kiss her and hold her and kiss her?

She surveyed the flowers once more but did not bother looking at the rest of the cards. Then she turned and walked from the parlor. Let Jasper sort out the swains. They were courting his favor, not hers.

*

The Season did not pause for a little thing like Napoleon’s abdication. That night, they had the Wingsingham ball to attend. It was not the crush that Olivia’s had been, but the Earl of Wingsingham had managed to obtain a last-minute license for fireworks in honor of the victory. That would enliven his daughter’s ball.

Olivia danced every set but the waltzes. She didn’t mind sitting those out. She watched Alice dance with Sir Langston for the first and with Mr. Gamby, the second. Mr. Gamby had courted Alice quite seriously last year but faded from sight in the face of her indifference. It was interesting he decided to make another attempt. Sir Langston, a baron, was not an old man, but he was short and balding. And he was a widower. Really, Alice deserved better.

Georgiana sat with Olivia instead of waltzing with Reg. Olivia had asked her to, not wanting any of the gentlemen who hadn’t been able to put their names on her card to swarm her while she was catching her breath. Dance cards. That was another source of irritation. Gentlemen did not abide by the rules!

Viscount Howerton wrote his name for the supper dance. He was the lord she’d branded the gambler, and Hazard had not corrected her. She received confirmation when Jasper scanned her dance card, frowned, and said, “I will have to have a word with Howerton.” Olivia was amused when Hazard’s friend, Lord Chesterfield, appeared at her side for the supper dance instead.

He was a shy fellow, but the liquid refreshment loosened his tongue. She asked him how long he had known Viscount Haslet. She didn’t say that she was curious because she’d known Hazard forever and had never heard his name mentioned.

“Ah, we go back a ways,” he said, looking down at his fingers as though the question embarrassed him. “Schoolmates, you see. Eton and Oxford.”

“How nice. It’s lovely you’ve come to London. Hazard is clearly glad to see you.” That was true. He seemed somehow happier these days, though he had never struck her as unhappy before.

“Well, yes, yes.” He was quiet a moment. Then he said, “I married very young. My wife did not like London. Neither of us did, I suppose. We rarely left my family estate.”

“Did not like London?”

“She passed.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you, but it has been three years.” He did not sound particularly affected. Was three years enough to mourn a wife? “Listen to me.” He grunted a laugh. “This is not conversation for a ball. I am out of practice behaving in company. I should be showering you with compliments. That’s what men do.”