Page 82 of A Symphony for the Earl

“Richard,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “I made a terrible mistake. Can you not forgive me and remember what we meant to each other?”

“I have forgiven you,” he replied. She had used tears to her advantage in the past. They came as easily as a smile, and he had indulged her efforts. Once, the transparency of her tricks had amused him. “Believe me, the incident is long forgotten.”

“Then come to my apartments later,” she whispered, “and we will become…reacquainted. You know I can please you in ways she never will.”

“Do you speak of my fiancée? I rather hope not, Eleanor. This is scarcely the time nor place.”

“When, then? I have waited patiently for your return, Richard. You will find my welcome quite…titillating. I remember how much you enjoy making up after a quarrel.”

“You forget yourself, madam,” he replied coldly.

Eleanor’s lovely face twisted with anger. He was all too familiar with her sudden rages. Her beauty and sexual expertise might have cajoled him once, but never her temper.

She snatched her hand away. “How dare you give me one of your infamous set downs. I am not some languishing young miss you can rebuff.”

“I see little difference at this moment. This encounter grows tedious. Whatever we shared is in the past. I will thank you for keeping it so.”

“You will regret this,” she hissed. “I am not so easily dismissed.” To his immense relief, she turned on her heel and hurried away—probably to find the marquis.

For the rest of the evening, Richard sought an opportunity to speak with Fiona. When she was not dancing, Gerald Rafferty or some young pup hovered by her side. He thought about interrupting her, but what would he say? I realize that you no longer need to marry me, but I love you.

At three o’clock, the orchestra struck the last dance, a waltz. She stood by her father, who had fixed his attention on Lady Amelia. He paused to gesture theatrically, obviously recounting some tropical adventure, and his mother appeared mesmerized.

Everything the man did was larger than life. He was brash and charismatic and no doubt would make quite a splash in society. Rather than suffering alienation by his unorthodox entrance, he had managed to charm several of the patronesses and win over most of the guests.

At one point, Richard observed him chatting easily with a decorated admiral, and later with the Duke of Montrose. He had also entertained the frail poet John Keats. That was another coup of his mother’s. George, Lord Byron, who recently returned to England with a new volume of verse, had accompanied Keats.

Finally, Richard was able to approach his betrothed.

“Will you dance the with me, Fiona?” He was stiff and formal and could have kicked himself.

To his surprise, she looked furious. What the devil was she in a temper about? He thought she might refuse to dance, but she took his arm, rigid with anger.

He glimpsed an open spot and swirled her into the crush of couples. They fell seamlessly into the rhythm; she had become an amazingly adept partner in a very short time.

“You’re upset, Fiona. What is amiss?”

“You ask me that? I suppose it’s meaningless among the ton to flirt with your former mistress in a public gathering. But at our betrothal ball? How could you do such a thing?”

His heart hammered against his chest. Was she jealous?

“There’s no need to concern yourself about Eleanor Davenport. She means nothing to me.”

“Your conceit is unbelievable. I could not care less about your relationship with her, but there is no call to humiliate me in public.”

“That wasn’t my intention. And it’s important that you know there is nothing between us. I ended our relationship over a year ago.”

She faltered, losing a step, but recovered and corrected herself. “It’s no matter to me if you continue your dalliances. But do not humiliate me.”

“Fiona—” To his chagrin, the orchestra swelled enthusiastically into the closing notes of the waltz. Before he could say more, the dance ended, and all he could do was incline his head and release her.

Lady Amelia appeared to usher them from the ballroom.

“Come, we must say goodbye. It is nearly four and I, for one, am exhausted.”

In the atrium, the family took their position by the door. Fiona stood at his side, his mother and sister close. The guests who had lingered looked reluctant to leave but could hardly ignore their hosts stationed at the exit.

Amid the goodbyes, Sir William Denton took his farewell. He bent low over Fiona’s silk-covered hand and Richard ground his teeth in frustration. It was the custom, but he wanted to rip off Denton’s head. She had danced with him twice, and if there had been a third time, the tight rein on his temper would have failed.