Page 42 of The Language of Love

Chapter 7

Henry’s days and nights passed in a blur of vapid frivolity that wore on him more and more with every hour.

Not only was each function more tedious than the last, but Henry suspected that Annis Bowman—the only person who could have made the shallow ton whirl bearable—was purposely being kept away from him.

On one hand, it was probably best that Annis wasn’t around. After all, she was in love with another man. But, on the other hand, she amused him and he liked her. Henry so rarely met people he liked that he simply couldn’t forget about her, even if all she would ever be was an acquaintance.

For years now—ever since Henry had made far more money than he could spend in five lifetimes—he’d become accustomed to getting everything he wanted. Not surprisingly, he didn’t like being denied anything. Specifically, he didn’t like being denied Annis’s company.

In the two weeks since the Tinley ball, he’d seen Annis only twice, and both times only briefly, before one of her unpleasant family members had found some use for her and whisked her away.

And that was another thing.

Of all the women Colin could have formed an attachment to, he’d picked one of the Bowman witches. Or, rather, they had chosen him, hooking Colin as effortlessly as they would a starving carp.

Susanna Bowman—with the help of her mother and sister—was setting her hook as deeply as possible in Colin’s unwitting jaw while also cutting out the competition.

And it was a competition; Roman gladiators had nothing on the fight-to-the-death spirit that pervaded ton functions. Colin was that rare beast: a wealthy, eligible, and handsome aristocrat. That he was an imbecile only made him more attractive to women like Susanna Bowman, because they could bend and shape him to their will.

To be honest, he wouldn’t have been able to spend much time with Annis if she had come to the various functions because Colin kept Henry busy making sure the idiot didn’t inadvertently get himself engaged.

But Henry had had enough.

If Annis wasn’t at this bloody ball tonight, he was going to arrange for Lady Sedgwick to apply some unpleasant pressure on Mrs. Agnes Bowman. If he didn’t get to see Annis soon, her aunt wouldn’t receive so much as an invitation to the street sweepers’ annual ball—if there were such a thing.

Indeed, if Annis wasn’t at the Penistone ball tonight, Henry wouldn’t wait to send a message via Colin; he would speak to the countess then and there.

Ideally, it was Colin who should make such requests of Lady Sedgwick, but the man was such a nitwit that he couldn’t frig his own hand without making a hash of it, so Henry would relay his employer’s requests.

The Penistone ball was one of the largest of the Season, and Henry and Colin had received a coveted dinner invitation. However—thanks to an unfortunate incident with an oyster fork and a dowager duchess’s turban at their last dinner party—they’d sent their regrets and would eat at home tonight.

Honestly, monitoring Colin’s behavior across a dinner table was more than Henry could bear at this point.

Indeed, Henry felt as if he’d been watching Colin all his life. He was having serious doubts that he could last the Season. And really, was there any point? He’d already proven to himself what he’d always suspected: these people despised him, just like he’d known they would.

Although he’d danced occasionally—usually because men were sorely in demand—he had not engaged in a conversation worth remembering since that one waltz with Annis.

A few weeks in London had done plenty to reaffirm his belief that the beau monde only respected money and status. Nothing else existed for these people and he’d begun to believe it would be better to just head to the Continent and find a place to live.

He certainly had no intention of visiting the family estate in Yorkshire. Why would he? He had nothing but terrible memories of Stoke.

And then there was the fact that Julia lived there.

Henry had received a steady stream of begging—or demanding, really—letters from dear Julia even before he’d left India. His cousin’s widow had decided that Henry was the same smitten, slavish dunce that he’d been twenty years ago, but now he was also Julia’s personal milch cow.

Every letter from the countess had included two things: Henry needed to come to Yorkshire immediately, as important matters could not be resolved without his presence; and Henry needed to instruct the steward at Stoke Castle to release ample funds to Julia immediately.

Henry hadn’t bothered to write and tell her he had no intention of ever stepping foot in Stoke—or Yorkshire—for as long as he lived. Nor had he dispensed any money.

He’d written to his steward about Julia, his instructions clear: the only monies Milner was to disperse to Lady Rotherhithe was the quarterly sum from her jointure. She could occupy the Dower House as it was.

The Dower House was a pokey, draughty little cottage, so Henry knew Julia would never want to live in such a place. She was welcome to continue living at Stoke, but he doubted she wanted to live there, either. What she wanted—what she’d always wanted since she’d been a girl—was to live in London.

As far as Henry knew, she’d never even paid a visit to the city. It didn’t surprise Henry that his cousin Charles hadn’t given Julia what she’d dreamed of. His uncle had already sold or mortgaged everything of value before his cousin had assumed the earldom. Charles would have had to choose between taking his wife to London or hunting. That Charles had died while hunting with the Quorn told Henry what his choice had been.

He scowled at his reflection as he gave his cravat a final tweak. Why the devil was he thinking about Charles and Julia? There was no subject guaranteed to put him in a foul mood more quickly.

Henry flicked a speck of dust off his dancing slippers and gave his tidy, but frugally attired, body a last look.