Page 14 of A Gifted Earl

Chapter Five

For all that she hadn’t danced, hadn’t done anything but simply stand and watch others, and occasionally engage in conversation, the Ball had been exhausting. Every look of disgust, or disdain, or pity, had drained her strength further. Now, as the door closed after Molly, who had helped her ready for sleep, and Venetia finally could lie in her bed, sleep was suddenly far away.

Instead, her mind replayed the evening, replayed every expression.

An hour later, when she was finally drifting on the edges of sleep, half dreaming, the persistent dream of the man who had sewn up her face seemed to merge with her recollections of the Ball. In that dreamlike state, she saw something which she had not recognised at the time – the man she had watched at the Ball, who had seemed so familiar, bore a more than passing resemblance to the man she had so regularly dreamed of, the man who, she believed, had saved her from an even worse scar.

That realisation jarred her back to wakefulness, and she sat up, thinking about it. Surely, there could be no link between them? What could an Earl, dressed in the height of elegant fashion, have in common with a groom who had been carrying out errands, dressed in clothing suited to the stables? She could not imagine how the resemblance might exist, unless it was purely coincidence.

It was, of course, always possible that the groom was an illegitimate son of the Earl’s father – such things happened, fairly frequently, even though most were hushed up. She shook her head – perhaps she was simply imagining it. After all, nothing about the day of her fall was clear in her mind, so perhaps, despite her dreams ever since, her image of the man who had helped her was false, and he looked nothing like the Earl.

Sighing, she lay down again, and tried to think of other things. Sleep claimed her, for the day had truly exhausted her, but that sleep was still populated by dreams, dreams filled with a handsome face and deep brown eyes.

*****

Despite it being late autumn, there was a social event almost every night, and Morgan quickly realised that going about in society was an exercise in endurance, more than anything else. He persisted, keeping his expression and manner determinedly calm and polite, whilst avoiding the traps that the mothers of eligible young women set.

At every event, he watched those around him, and saw, over and over, examples of how shallow and unkind many of the people were. They might be the highest nobility, but in their treatment of others, they were frequently not at all noble. Perhaps his perspective had been distorted by years at war but, if so, he was glad of it – he did not wish to be as many of these people were.

What disturbed him most was the gossip, and the rather vicious mockery of those who did not meet the arbitrary standards of the doyennes of the ton. He did not find sharp tongued criticism amusing, and he found the way that the young women were treated most strange. They were discussed as men might discuss horses for sale at Tattersall’s – a comparison of their features and capabilities, their breeding, their dowries and other attributes, but never any consideration of either their personalities or their personal interests.

It was as if they were not people at all, but simply assets to be sold or bargained with for the benefit of their fathers and families. He had known it was like this, for his mother had described it to him, but it had not seemed real until he stood amongst it.

Unless a girl was perfect of features, with a good figure, from a good family, and with a good dowry, her prospects were definitely minimal. That realisation made his own situation seem worse – people expected him to marry, for the Earldom needed an heir, and they expected him to approach marriage exactly the same way that these people around him did. He could not do so. The idea of marrying a woman when there was no affection between them was abhorrent to him, and he knew full well that a fair exterior was no guarantee of a beautiful character.

The more he saw, the more he pitied the girl whose face he had tried so hard to repair.

That thought ran through his mind as he bowed to yet another young Lady, at yet another Ball.

“Good Evening, Lady Portia. Might you have a dance free?”

She simpered, looking nervous, and nodded.

“I do, my Lord.”

He took the proffered dance card and wrote his name beside the next available dance. There were quite a few, for this young woman was plain of countenance and, although reputed to have quite a good dowry, she was still not often sought out. He had made it a practice to discover such young women, and speak with them, dance with them, rather than pursuing the acknowledged beauties.

He handed the card back, and bowed again.

“Until then, my Lady.”

He moved away, noting others who stood on the sidelines, the wallflowers, as they were called. Some looked hopeful, others seemed to withdraw into the shadows, despairing of ever being noticed. He had seen the same young women do so at a number of events now.

He walked across the room towards a small group of gentlemen – men whose acquaintance he had recently made, and whom he had, so far, found to be tolerable company. They were clustered together, talking, and there was some quiet laughter – exactly at what, he did not know. He reached them in time to hear a remark which led to more laughter, at least from some.

“…she’s fine enough of figure, but the face… would you want to look at that every day? And the whisper is that her dowry is nowhere near enough to make putting up with it worthwhile. I’ll be looking elsewhere, that’s for certain, when I eventually get serious about marrying.”

A second man nodded, and his words had Morgan following the direction of their gaze across the room.

“It’s rather presumptuous of her to think that any man would marry her, with a scar like that – especially when there are so many other unblemished women to choose from.”

The casual cruelty of those words took his breath away, making him sure that the man who had spoken, Lord Woodster, would not become a friend. The small group of young women whom the men were looking at stood close to some older ladies, who were deep in conversation. There were four girls, of varying heights and figures, but one was taller than the rest, and stood with a slight stiffness which suggested to Morgan that she really did not wish to be there at all.

It seemed that she was the one they spoke of, for Lord Canstead nodded in agreement with Lord Woodster.

“Indeed. Not only is there the scar, but she is very tall, and rather more lean than I like a woman to be.”

Morgan studied her, hoping that the men would turn the conversation to other things, and planning to escape their company as soon as he could politely do so. As he watched, she turned her head, and the light fell directly on her face.