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And how, by all that was good and holy, could he stop his heart? How could he convince it to fall out of love with her again?
With a sinking feeling and a certainty surer than the earth revolving about the sun, he knew it was impossible.
What was he to do now?
William had watched his friend, puzzled and concerned, for three entire days. On the fourth he said, “Whatever it is that troubles you so, my friend, this must stop. You are driving yourself to madness.”
Christopher had stared at him for a moment. Then he’d slapped his thigh and broken out into roaring laughter that left him in tears.
William, alarmed, did the only thing a true friend could do. Distraction was needed.
He dragged him to a ball.
* * *
The ball hosted by the Duchess of Marlborough was an exclusive event to which only a select few of the ton were invited. Many craved an invitation; few received one. Part of the appeal was that the Duchess prided herself on holding the very last ball of the Season, and she alone decided when the Season was over.
Christopher stood there, at a loss, looking about him in a daze. What on earth was he even doing there? The ballroom was opulently decorated with roses, the orchestra fiddled dance after dance, and the wine and champagne flowed.
Dancing did not appeal to him, neither did cards. And for the food he had no appetite. Only the champagne fountain, which the hostess had set up, mildly aroused his interest.
This, he concluded, was at least something to look forward to; to get roaring drunk and then have William cart him home again.
Seeing William conversing with Rochford and Marlborough, he heaved a sigh and sauntered over to the room where the fountain was set up.
It was silver, and in four tiers, and champagne spouted from the top, sparkling and shimmering as it cascaded down. It was quite pretty to look upon. A footman stood next to it and handed the guests glasses so they could help themselves to the champagne by catching the liquid from the fountain.
Christopher took a glass, filled it, drank it in one go. Then he filled it again.
Ah. This would be his favourite place, right here.
“One does wonder how often that liquid has gone round again and how many people might have washed their fingers in it, or, heaven forbid, spat in it,” a cool, clear voice said beside him with a sniff. “I would not touch it for the world.”
He turned, surprised, to behold a tall, regal-looking lady, entirely in silver, with a straight proud nose and white-blonde hair look at him with some disdain.
“I beg your pardon?”
Who was she to destroy his only source of joy? For she was quite right. Earlier, he had seen a gentleman stick his fat finger into the stream, lick it, and repeat the action.
“I said it might be wiser to ask for a freshly opened bottle of champagne than to partake of that slop.” She gave an imperceptible nod to the footman, who immediately scurried away, to return with a fresh bottle of champagne. He opened the bottle with a pop, poured a glass and offered it to the lady.
She wrinkled her nose and waved a hand. “Not me. Him.”
Christopher received the glass. His glance wandered over her again, took in the slight strain at her eyes, the pallor in her cheeks, the nostrils that widened slightly at the smell of the alcohol, travelled down, and paused over her stomach, which appeared to be quite flat, still.
“Good to refrain from drinking the champagne. You should also be resting. Bring her a chair,” he told the footman. To the woman he said, “Congratulations. Five months, I presume?”
She looked at him, taken aback, then her face broke into a smile.
Surprising, Christopher noted, how that softened her stern features. A dreamy look entered her eyes. “They were right when they said that you are a physician. And not just any. They say you are one of the best in the country.”
He shrugged. “They say many things about me. I care naught for any of it.”
The footman brought the chair, and she sat. She lifted a narrow, gloved hand. “Do sit and keep me company. I’ve been wanting to speak to you anyhow, Lord St John.”
He sat with a frown. “Have you? And who are you, might I ask?” They had not been introduced, and even he, with his lack of social etiquette, knew that it was highly irregular of a lady to be addressing a gentleman at a ball if they were not yet introduced.
As if reading his thoughts, she said, “You must excuse the unorthodox means of me addressing you. But I have good reason to. You see, I have been wanting to talk to you for quite some time already.” She folded her hands in front of her.
