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“No, that’s quite enough helping, thank you.”
“If I may–”
Ezra groaned.
“–you look very dashing, my lord.”
“Thank you, Belfort.” He tugged at the black neck cloth it had taken him three times to get right, and resisted the urge to rake his fingers through hair that he’d set with pomade. While he had, on occasion, dressed the part of a nobleman, as a general rule, he avoided the frump and the fabric whenever possible. Give him a pair of trousers, a waistcoat, and a jacket–matching or not, it didn’t matter–and he was fine with it, much to his valet’s eternal dismay. But tonight, he had taken great pains to remember all the snide snippets that his valet had shared with him over the years (“You’re going to wearthat, my lord, instead of your blue frock coat with the silver buttons?”), and as a result he looked…well, he looked like the Earl of Whitmore. Or what the Earl of Whitmore would have looked like if he he’d spent the latter part of his second decade in ballrooms instead of frolicking from pub to pub.
“The silversmith shop, you said?” he asked his butler, who nodded.
“Yes, my lord. The display of decorative spoons shall be to your left when you enter.”
What an absurd sentence. Even more absurd because it was directed at him. Ezra started for the door and the carriage that was awaiting him outside of it, but paused with his right foot over the threshold, his shoulders tensing beneath the perfectly tailored seams of his elegant black frock coat. “This dinner is very important, Belfort.”
“It seems to be, my lord.”
“I haven’t done many very important things. Not successfully, at any rate.”
A slight hesitation, and then, “Each individual must develop their own definition of success, my lord. For some, their success is equivalent to wealth. For others, social prestige. And then, for a rare few, success is…harder to define. It may be a feeling. An emotion. A sense of pride in an accomplishment. Or it might even be the courage to step outside the boundaries of what one might find naturally comfortable.”
Ezra’s scowl returned. “You’re talking in riddles, Belfort.”
“Have an excellent time at the dinner party, my lord. I do pray you find whatever it is you’re looking for there. Or dare I say,whoever.”
“Who said I was looking for anything or anyone?”
The butler smiled pleasantly. “We’re all searching, my lord. And that search takes all of us down different paths. I hope that yours has finally led you to who you need.”
“More riddles and nonsense,” he muttered under his breath before he walked out the door. Except there was a grain of truth in the servant’s cryptic words. A certain wisdom that Ezra hadn’t been ready to hear until now. Wisdom that, in a perfect world, would have come from his own father instead of his butler. But whatwasa father, if not a male figure that offered insight and instruction? That was there in your weakest moments, not to mock and deride, but to support and guide?
Ezra’s father may have given him life, but Belfort…Belfort had given him hope.
Hope that he was capable of being a better man.
Hope that he wasn’t the dismal failure his family made him out to be.
Hope that just because his story was different, that didn’t make it less than…it just made it longer. And sometimes, the best things were worth the wait.
“Is he here yet?”Pushing her nose up against the window in her bedchamber that overlooked the front drive, Annabel huffed impatiently. “He’s late. Maybe he’s not coming.”
“Or maybe,” Eloise snickered from behind her, “Lord Whitmore heard how crazy you’ve become and he’s heading pell-mell towards London as we speak.”
Annabel whirled around to glower at her sister. A glower that turned into an unexpected smile of surprise when she saw what the youngest Rosewood was wearing. “Eloise!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight. “You’rebeautiful!”
For once, the wild redhead had abandoned her wardrobe of breeches and ill-fitting dresses for an exceptionally stunning gown of violet silk that fit snugly across her shoulders, bodice, and waist before spilling out into a bell-shaped skirt that swished around her ankles as she plopped down on the bed.
“I lost a bet with Lenora,” she said sullenly, crossing her arms. “I have to wear this medieval torture contraption untilmidnight. I don’t know if I’ll survive.”
Annabel’s eyes rolled. “It’s a dress, not an iron maiden. You’ll be fine.”
“It’s itchy.”
“It’s lovely.”
“I can’t move in it.”
“You mean you can’t climb trees in it.”
