The others bowed as his wife latched on to him and dragged him toward the dance floor.
“I thought young Bankforth was squiring you about the dance tonight,” he muttered.
She giggled, as gay as a girl in the schoolroom instead of a woman in her fortieth year. “I wore him out, poor thing. Besides”—she maneuvered him into the proper position—“you know how you love to dance!”
Hasselthorpe sighed again. He loathed dancing, and he’d told Adriana so on many an occasion. For some reason, she chose to think he was teasing when he protested. Or perhaps her brain was too small to keep track of the information for any length of time.
Hasselthorpe looked over his wife’s head as he waited for the music to start and saw Blanchard staring daggers across the room. It wasn’t hard to find the object of his gaze—Lord Hope was making his way to Miss Corning, who sat in a corner with Mrs. Graham. He looked back at Blanchard. If looks could kill, Lord Hope would be lying bleeding on the floor. Interesting. It seemed Blanchard’s hatred of Hope was personal.
It made one wonder what such an intense animosity would drive a man to do.
“NOW TELL ME,” Beatrice said a little later. “What’s so urgent that you needs must pull me away from Lady Vale?”
“I wanted you to hear it from me,” Lottie said solemnly. They sat together at the side of the ballroom on a gold silk settee. A statue of a Greek god to one side and a potted plant to the other gave them a measure of privacy.
“Your manner is terribly secretive,” Beatrice said. Her eyes drifted to her friend’s belly. Could it be…?
“I’ve left Nathan.”
Beatrice’s gaze snapped up. “But why?” She stared at Lottie in bewildered concern. “I thought you loved Mr. Graham.”
“I do,” Lottie said. “Of course I do. But that just makes it so much worse.”
“I don’t see how.”
Lottie sighed, and for the first time, Beatrice saw that her friend was truly weary. There were faint mauve half circles beneath her eyes, and she squeezed her hands together as if to control a tremor. “I love him, and I think he still loves me, but he no longer cares. I… I’m a thing to him, Bea.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, dear. Can you explain it to me?”
“Oh!” Lottie lifted her hands from her lap and balled them into fists. “Oh, it’s so very difficult to articulate.”
Beatrice placed her hand around one of Lottie’s fists. “I’m listening.”
Lottie inhaled and closed her eyes. “It’s as if I’m one of the things he owns or possesses. He has a carriage, he has a butler, he has a town house, and he has a wife. I fill a position, as it were, and he might love me, somewhere deep underneath his everyday exterior, but I could be anyone, Bea.” She opened her eyes and stared at her friend with something very like despair. “I could be Regina Rockford or Pamela Thistlewaite or that girl who married the Italian count.”
“Meredith Brightwell,” Beatrice murmured. She’d always had a better memory for names than Lottie.
“Yes,” Lottie said. “Any of them. I fulfill a… a space in his life, nothing more. If I died, he’d mourn and then go out and find another to fill that space again.”
“Surely not,” Beatrice murmured, not a little shocked. Was this truly what marriage was like? Did the love and compliments and courting really not last?
“Believe me, it’s all true.” Lottie wiped her eyes with one wrist. “I couldn’t take that anymore. I may be naive, but I want to be loved—loved for myself, not the position I hold—so I left.”
Beatrice swallowed, looking down at her hand still clasped with Lottie’s. “Where are you staying?”
“At Papa’s house,” Lottie said. “He isn’t pleased, and Mama’s worried about the scandal, but they’ll let me stay.”
“But . . .” Beatrice frowned. “What will you do?”
“I don’t know.” Lottie laughed, but the sound caught and she quieted. “Perhaps I’ll be scandalous and take a lover.”
She didn’t look particularly excited at the thought.
Beatrice glanced across the ballroom. A minuet had started, and couples were pacing gracefully on the dance floor. She could see Lord Hope making his way toward them, and her heart gave a kind of skip in her chest. And beyond him, suddenly clear, was Mr. Graham—Nate—staring rather wistfully at them.
“Perhaps you can try talking to him.” Even as she said it, she knew the suggestion was hopelessly inadequate.
Lottie smiled wearily. “I’ve tried. It hasn’t worked.”