Page 6

But it was that final look, the one he’d given her as his aunt lauded her social graces.

Social graces. She snorted in a most unladylike manner—the ceiling was her only audience and surely the crown molding did not care. All her life she’d wasted her time learning to embroider, to play music, to dance, to flirt—though not too much. Her father had spared no expense getting her the finest tutors in French and Italian, in ensuring that she knew the perfect way to entertain, to serve, to talk—though again, not too much. No one wanted an overly flirtatious chatterbox for a wife.

Her life had been a never-ending lesson in balance. Learning how to smile just enough to be charming yet proper, how to speak just enough to be entertaining but not loud, how to laugh at the right volume so as to be diverting but not garish.

It was exhausting.

And for what? All so she could walk the tightrope that was society.

But what happened when one fell? What good did all that balancing do when one was flat on the ground looking up at the other performers who still performed on the tightrope, their heads held high as if they couldn’t see her. As if they themselves would never fall.

She huffed as she plumped her pillow beneath her head, trying to get comfortable and failing. It wasn’t the bed, or the pillow. It wasn’t even the image of gray eyes—so dark, so fierce, so intense that they were impossible to look away from. No, it was the same thing that had kept her awake for countless nights ever since her father took his life and left her and her sister alone with nothing. He’d left them with a mountain of debt, pitiful objects of charity for her mother’s friends to take care of.

No one in society thought this would happen to them, but then—she’d never thought she’d be here either. With all the money her father had spent on her, how was she to know that it was money he did not have? There had never been any signs that her life had been built on a pile of sand. Yet, one brisk wind and it had all crumpled beneath her.

She was lucky that the Dowager had always liked her. That she felt a loyalty to her mother, even now after death. Clara was lucky that their mother’s cousin had taken in her younger sister, Edith, but she could not ask that they give her the debut she deserved. They had three daughters of their own and they could not be expected to pay for Edith’s coming out as well.

She and Edith had both gone to their mother’s cousin immediately after her father’s death. And in the months before the Dowager came for her, she had done what the Dowager had told Alex. She’d taught the daughters all that she’d been taught.

Useless now for her, so why not impart her expensive gifts on those who might stand a chance of using them?

She sat up with a sigh. Well, now she was just feeling sorry for herself, and that had never done anyone any amount of good.

From experience she knew the best way to steer clear of a good wallow was to distract herself. Preferably with a book. She’d finished the last gothic novel—the one the Dowager had lent her when she’d discovered they both shared the same love of dark romantic adventures. She highly doubted that the library at this particular home held anything so fanciful as a gothic romance.

Her mind flashed back to those eyes. That stare. The dark hair, stern features, and furrowed brow that gave the Earl of Charmian a brooding air that would have made him an excellent hero in a gothic novel.

The thought made her grin as she swung her legs out of bed and donned a wrap over her night rail.

He might have the look of a romantic hero, but she couldn’t image any hero being quite so stodgy. Her smile grew as she bit back a laugh at the memory of the way he’d been so shocked by the sight of her, how he’d fumbled for words when being introduced.

Perhaps he wasn’t stodgy, just…odd. Either way, she’d liked it. She’d liked him. After so many years of dealing with the suave, eloquent, and shallow men of the ton, he was a breath of fresh air.

A stern, brooding breath of fresh air.

The halls were silent as she crept past the Dowager’s bedroom door beside hers and down the stairs to the main floor where she’d passed a library.

The floors didn’t so much as creak as she crept, which made her feel even more like a trespasser. Silliness. She was a guest in this house, was she not? Tess had made her feel welcome from the moment she’d stepped foot.

Tess’s brother? Not as much. But despite the flicker of recognition when he’d learned of her name, he had not done as other gentlemen might have done. He had not looked at her with derision, or disdain, or—worst of all—pity.

She shivered at the thought. Or perhaps the shiver was from the draft that swept through the empty hallway. When she reached the library, she pushed it open but blinked in surprise to find that it was not empty as the hallways had been.

The fire cast a warm glow and she blinked rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the light. Slowly the shadows came to life, and she saw the earl—it had to be the earl—as he stretched his legs out before him and shifted.

Had he seen her? She could not be sure. A little part of her wanted to back out without a word, scurry back down the hallway to avoid any more of these tense, searching glares from this unreadable, strange creature.

She might have done so if he hadn’t leaned forward, bringing his profile into view and his eyes glistening in the firelight as they stared at her.

Her breath caught. Oh my. That stare was intimidating. No, not intimidating. It was nerve-wracking, perhaps, but not frightening. She took a step into the room.

His stare was…intriguing.

“May I help you find something?” he said, hurrying to his feet once he realized who she was. No doubt he’d assumed her to be the housekeeper or a servant at first glance.

“I just came to find a book,” she said, barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She was standing in a library. Of course it was a book she was after.

“Ah.” His gaze didn’t look startled, but she wasn’t certain his stoic brooding face had the ability to show surprise. He seemed to be made of stone when it came to emotions. It was only the way he’d floundered for words that had made her think he wasn’t all that unflappable.