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But doubts she didn’t want to indulge persisted.
If she belonged to Asquith, could she trust that he would not become like her father?
Chapter Seven
The massive doors on each side of the Hampton residence’s front hall had been swung wide for Lord and Lady Hampton’s conversazione. Asquith stood near the hall’s center, leaning against the paneling beside the stairs. His only companion? A potted palm.
Just above him, a lady wafting a fan caused the branches to shiver. He ducked, narrowly avoiding another jab from the palmate’s pointy tips.
Based on the invitation, Asquith’s expectation had been for a private, scholarly assembly.
Instead, a throng of people milled about airless rooms, bombarded by a chaotic sea of conversations. Tables of curiosities filled both the hall and the two front parlors; a card room occupied the library in the rear, and a small dancing area on the second-floor landing sent music wafting down—less conversazione than crush.
He never should have come.
He waved foliage away from his ear. The damned nuisance kept blocking his view.
As if by prior agreement, Lady Amelia had led Lenora away as soon as they’d arrived. The two of them were now buried in a bundle of young ladies. Young ladies Asquith suspected Lady Amelia didn’t even like.
He couldn’t imagine Lenora finding another bosom friend among that throng. Nor did she appear to be trying. Instead, Lenora had adopted Amelia’s reserve.
He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. Ladies did not break into giggles at tonish events. But watching Lenora retreat behind a meticulously crafted mask unsettled him, particularly now that he understood the pretense.
And she had not given him the chance to see the real Lenora all week.
Three times he’d dropped in on his mother. Three times he’d found they’d gone out, taking Barker and the carriage, leaving him to commiserate with Chanson and Mont.
She’d even been largely silent on the carriage trip here.
A few weeks ago, he would have been relieved. But her reaction to his anger had shocked him to his senses, making him realize how much he cared.
And their kiss had kindled an aching, ever-present need.
He dreamed of her and awoke to sweat-dampened sheets. He closed his eyes and again experienced the heady, dizzy sense of having her in his arms. And his carnal appetites merely scratched the surface of a much more significant desire.
As he worked with Mont, he cataloged the horse’s achievements, knowing she’d be interested. He made notes in the Stud Book and Racing Calendar, wondering if she’d agree with his calculations. He even studied the men in his club, trying to identify which quirk Lenora would use to mimic them.
He saw her in everything he did, but he didn’t see her by his side. Instead, she was across the room.
He fixed his eyes on Lady Amelia, silently pleading for a subtle nod or a knowing look that would confirm Lenora had at least spoken his name. But the two friends inhabited their own world, utterly oblivious to his existence.
On the day they’d kissed, he never expected that meeting would be their last. Quite the opposite in fact. He’d thought they had begun anew.
He’d been mistaken.
He watched, heart in his throat, as she reached up and brushed her fingers against her hair’s soft strands. He envisioned his fingers weaving through the silken curls. He was feverish and frustrated, and growing more desperate by the hour.
With a low growl, he pushed off the paneling and then headed toward the back of the house. He couldn’t spend the whole night pining for the briefest glance.
By the time he picked up the leathery book scent in the air, he’d nodded to more friends-and-relations of his mother than he could count. Then, just as he reached the doorway, he heard Willard’s booming laugh.
He froze as his insides turned to ice.
His jaw tensed, his hand contracted. Then he remembered the questions Lenora posed. Do you have to be ashamed? Can’t you simply be aware? She’d been speaking of his regret for having raised his voice, but could the same apply to a much older wound?
He stared into the library, catching a glimpse of Willard as he tipped back on a chair like a scapegrace half his age, like one of the young cads clamoring for his favor.
Gradually, he became aware, developing a clear and unwavering understanding of his own essential nature. And Willard’s.
