Shifting his weight, he considered his options. Maybe he should make his way to his club or a gambling house or any one of a number of entertainments he'd previously patronized. While it held amusement to force his presence upon a society clearly unwilling to host him, there were vastly more interesting ways to spend an evening--not that he could think of any at this present moment. Of late, the life of a profligate had started to pall, and he found himself wondering about his estate in Ambleside. Of what might be involved in land management, and how the sun would feel against his skin as he stood in a field, the gentle bleat of sheep carried on the breeze.
With a twist of his lips, he dismissed such fancies. He must be getting old to become prone to maudlin thoughts. Besides, the earls of Edgington were bred for better things, or so his father had told him. However, his father had also told him he was a useless fool, and if his wife had managed to present him with a spare as was proper, he would not suffer his eldest son as heir.
Why his father despised him, Edgington didn't know, but he'd long reconciled himself to the knowledge that his father held no affection for him, and he'd found delight in living down to his opinion of him. A smirk twisted his lips. The greatest of his perversions could boast inception in his desire to enrage his father and, truth be told, he was a little lost as to his purpose now that the man was gone.
Once, though, he'd thought to have something more. His smirk died as memory curled about him. Once, he'd thought perhaps he was more than the sum of his parts, more than what his parents had made him. Once, someone had looked at him as if he could be better and, for a brief moment, he'd believed her.
However, that was ten years and a lifetime ago, and he'd gone in another direction. Maybe, though ... maybe it was time to turn his path. Maybe, instead of his club, he would go home. Maybe tomorrow he'd strategize a new life, one that gave him purpose.
A laugh rang out over the throng. Something about it tugged at a half-remembered memory, something he'd convinced himself he'd forgotten. The hairs on his neck stood up, and he pulled himself straight, straining to look over the throng to find the owner of the laugh. Heart a fast beat in his chest; he skipped over each face and figure, certain he was wrong.
As if magic, the crowd parted. And he saw her.
His heart froze. For an endless moment, he stared. Then the world started again, his heart lurching to a wild rhythm he couldn't contain.
She'd only just arrived. Cheeks rosy, she removed a dark cloak to reveal she wore green, not the pale green of her youth but a deep emerald. A feather of the same hue set jauntily in her hair deepened the strawberry-blonde curls and no doubt brought out the green flecks in her hazel eyes. He couldn't see their color from here, but he remembered them, remembered their light as she beamed a smile. Remembered them wet, and then remembered them devoid of any emotion at all.
Face animated, she gestured at the crowd as she spoke to the dark-haired woman beside her. The woman said something and she laughed again, the sound of it skipping along his spine. Linking her arm with her companion, she made her way toward the ballroom, chatting all the while.
Edgington followed them. They entered the ballroom, and the whirl enveloped him, hundreds of people in a too small room, but the lure of the feather atop her head was too great.
The feather stopped. Pushing through the crowd, he saw her friend had greeted someone, temporarily leaving her to her own devices. A polite smile on her face, she looked about the ballroom, her smile brightening every now and then.
Hidden in the crowd, he watched her. Now, it was obvious why he'd come to the ball--for the slight chance he would see her.
He'd heard about her return. It had been in all the papers, the triumphant return of Viscount Hargrove's sister. They'd been full of her exploits on the Continent, the countries she'd seen, the society she'd kept. Each article he'd devoured, unable to keep the distance he maintained with everyone else, but then, that was nothing new. He'd never been able to distance himself from her.
Ten years since he'd seen her, and she hadn't changed. Maybe she was
a bit older, her hair a bit more gold, but she still looked as she did when he was a callow youth of twenty-one and more than a little infatuated. He remembered every curve of her face, the softness of her skin. The way her mouth moved under his.
Her gaze wandered to the dancing, and a wistful kind of smile occupied her face. His pulse a thunder in his ears, he wanted, quite stupidly, to ask her to dance.
Closing his eyes briefly, he shook himself. As if she would say yes. If he were to approach her, the smile would disappear from her features, as would all emotion. He knew. He'd seen it happen before.
Her gaze moved again and their eyes locked.
For a moment, a split second, her smile remained, and he had an insane hope that all had been forgiven, that, perhaps, he could approach her. Then, all expression bled from her face, and she regarded him coolly, her joy in the evening gone.
His heart sank. He'd known she'd react so, though a part of him had hoped he'd been wrong. A part of him had hoped he could approach her, could ask her to dance, could ask for her hand.
But, of course, he couldn't. She was Sofia Hargrove. The girl he'd ruined.
SOFIE STARED AT VISCOUNT March. He had changed in the past ten years. His golden hair used to riot about his head in a tumble of curls, but now dark blond strands were clipped close to his head and slicked with pomade. His dress was sober, too, unrelieved black with a snowy white cravat, as if he knew such clothing would frame his pale skin, wide shoulders, and slim hips. His eyes would still be gray, not that she could see that from here, nor would she ever wish to confirm it. She'd be quite happy never to speak to him again, and thus forever be in ignorance if his eyes were the same shade of gray she, to her great disgust, still remembered.
The viscount--no. He must be the earl now. The Earl of Edgington. She'd read of his father's death in the English newspapers in Vienna ... or was it Prague? Wherever it had been, she'd skipped over news of him and very deliberately turned the page.
The earl stared at her. Sofie resisted the urge to check her hair and then cursed herself for even thinking it. She'd known she'd come across him eventually. The three weeks she'd been in London, she'd held her breath, certain she would turn a corner and there he'd be. Every time she'd attended a ball or a dance, the theater, even walking in the park she'd thought she'd see him. When she hadn't, she'd foolishly allowed herself to believe she would never see him, that maybe she would pass this time in London without encountering him again, visiting her family and friends before returning to the Continent and the life she had built for herself
More fool her.
"Sofie, what are you staring at?"
Diana's voice pulled Sofie from the earl to discover her friend regarding her, a crease between her brows.
Arranging a bright smile across her features, Sofie said, "Nothing. This ball is such a crush, isn't it?"
Diana was not so easily dissuaded, however, and Sofie knew the precise instant her friend discovered who had captured her attention. Anger soured Diana's expression as she glared at the earl. "What's he doing here?"