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As if he had called her name, she turned.
Their eyes met.
The orchestra roared, and then it faded away, and she was the only one in the room.
Then someone jostled her and she looked away. The crush returned, the discordant music, the stuffy air, the tightness of his cravat.
He would go to her, now. He glanced at his father, who had returned from the past and was bestowing his usual scowl, the scowl that always triggered Joshua’s ire, and now—
Nothing.
Joshua studied his father’s face, as if seeing it for the first time and—Nothing. No rage, no fury. Indifference—Distaste—Nostalgia for what had never been—Irritation over the time he had lost. This was all he felt for his father now.
Joshua was not angry anymore.
“I apologize, sir, for any unnecessary trouble I’ve caused you,” he said.
The earl’s scowl faded into surprise. “You what?”
“That does not mean I condone or forgive what you have done. It mainly means I don’t care anymore.”
Treyford stared, bemused. But he quickly recovered. “That’s not much of an apology.”
“Better than your apology.”
“What apology?”
“Precisely.” Joshua tugged off his left glove, twisted the signet ring off his finger, and held it out to his father. “I believe this belongs to your heir.”
His father’s eyes narrowed and he extended his hand tentatively, as though he feared this were a trick. Joshua dropped the ring onto his palm.
His hand felt naked without it and he massaged the empty spot. He had worn that ring since he was twelve, moving it from finger to finger as he grew, and now it was gone. It had never been his; he had held onto it too long. Treyford turned it in his hands, inspecting it with a frown, then he slid it onto his own little finger for safekeeping.
Joshua put his glove back on, and once more held out his hand. This time, Treyford did not hesitate to shake it. He bowed. His father bowed. Then Joshua turned and headed for his wife.
Chapter 25
At first, Cassandra had eyes only for Lucy, whose dancing was perfection and behavior exemplary, and with each dance step more of Cassandra’s worry melted. If the whispers she overheard were any guide, London was already smitten.
But then her eyes were scanning the sea of dark coats, moving over them quickly, for the men inside them were tepid and dull. Only one was dynamic and alive, and when their eyes met, the music faded and he was the only man in the room.
For a beat of her heart—two beats, three—she was the only woman.
If they were the only couple in the room, why, he would cross the floor and sweep her into his arms, and they would waltz—
Waltz? Joshua? Not likely. And what need had she of a waltz, anyway? What need had she of a man who knew the right time to sit and the right time to stand and could say the right things while saying nothing at all?
None of that mattered. It wasthisman she needed: strong and true, caring and vulnerable. He lived by his values, he was buffeted by his emotions, he changed things for the better, and he had so much love to give that he did not know what to do and drove himself mad trying to hide it.
She almost shook with the intensity of her yearning. If only she could tell him: “It’s you. It’s only you. Don’t leave me. I need you.”
And he would laugh and say, “Been in the brandy again, Mrs. DeWitt?” and then he’d run as fast as he could.
Someone jostled her. She had to turn and when she looked back at him, couples blocked her view.
“With looks like that, your sister might survive your family’s shame.” The sly female voice slithered over Cassandra’s spine. “Then again, she might become a courtesan.”
Lady Bolderwood.
