Yes. That could certainly be a gothic story if someone wished to look too closely at his life. And like a lurid gothic novel, it certainly couldn’t have a happy ending. Yet as much as he told himself to accept this truth, his heart involved itself in the most dangerous sort of rebellion. It hoped.
He looked to the clock and noted the time. He’d said he would attend the Moorson rout tonight, and it was time to begin preparations. He swallowed hard, as if already feeling the excessively tight cravat he’d wear with his evening kit. Perhaps he’d wear something purple to match the color of his eye. Damn, it was going to be hell. All the questioning expressions with the infernal whispering the moment they saw his back.
How he missed Cambridge’s social events and their casual requirements. He’d found his home among the Fellows and faculty, men more interested in ideas than in a person’s pedigree. Renowned Fellows could be seen deep in thought as they crossed the lawn of Trinity College that only they were allowed to walk on, and, a few minutes later, shared their wealth of knowledge with their students. And the conversation focused on new ideas, shared experiences with a student, or something equally diverting and engaging. But the social events of London were created to display power and wealth and to fortify or create social alliances, he thought, shaking his head. Events there were painfully dull and equally disconcerting since those attempts at social alliances tended to be aimed at his bachelor self.
He rose and left his study, making his way to his room where his valet would be waiting to assist him. Lowson welcomed him with a bow. “Ah, I selected your ruby pin for this evening. Do you approve, Your Grace?”
“Indeed.” Rowles nodded.
“Then, after you, Your Grace.” Lowson gestured to the closet, and Rowles led the way.
Rowles was soon finished with his preparations and headed down to his carriage. His family crest decorated the side in a flash of gold. The ram with its head lowered appeared prepared to fight, its powerful hindquarters at the ready for battle. Rowles stepped into the well-sprung carriage and adjusted his coat.
Would Joan and Morgan have arrived already? More so, would Joan’s dance card already be filled? He tapped his knee as he wondered if Morgan would be suspicious if he asked for another one of Joan’s waltzes. The carriage rumbled along till it pulled into the queue behind the other party attendees. The footmen were quick in assisting each guest, and soon it was his turn to alight from his carriage. Torches lit the drive all the way up to the open door as ladies in feathered turbans and men in evening dress filtered into the grand house. Music welcomed each guest as they approached the house. Rowles took the steps and followed the music and the crowd down the hall toward the ballroom. The brightly lit room was buzzing with conversation as the string quartet finished the song. He scanned the room for Joan and, consequently, Morgan.
Already his cravat felt tight, but he quelled the urge to adjust it and moved forward, avoiding the observation of several young debutantes hiding behind their equally attentive mothers. The black eye wasn’t much of a deterrent, apparently. He dared not show any interest, or he’d be preyed upon like a rabbit in the hunt.
As he turned to the left, he caught sight of a familiar face and smiled in response. His Grace, the Duke of Wesley, or Quin, as he was known to his close friends, was standing scandalously close to his wife, Catherine. Rowles started toward them, his smile growing wider when he noted that Morgan, with his own colorful eye, and Joan were also in their conversational circle. Perhaps luck was indeed on his side this night. The gossiping set would certainly notice the facers both he and Morgan sported and would no doubt concoct a story. But since the altercation had started at White’s in front of God and everyone, it was better to display a mending of the friendship rather than let the gossipers spread rumors of a rift between the families.
“Ah, well, I didn’t expect to see you here.” Rowles extended his hand to Quin as he approached. His friend took his offered greeting. “I figured it was time to come out of hiding.”
“Hiding. Is that what we call it?” Morgan chimed in. “I thought it was called being newly married.”
Rowles snickered a little. “I think that ends a few weeks after the wedding. It’s been more than six months. And I must say, I don’t believe I’ve seen you in as much time.”
Quin shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “I have no defense and do not care to have one. You’re lucky I’m blessing you with my presence. Rather, the presence of my lovely wife.” He beamed down at his equally enamored partner.
“I might have said something about being social, but I must admit I didn’t miss this all that terribly.” Catherine gave an apologetic shrug to Joan. “But we were out of the country for your come-out, and for that I’m sorry. It was quite the smashing success, if any gossip is to be believed.” She reached out to squeeze Joan’s hand.
“It was a lovely party, and I do believe it was a success. But being out of the country, your excuse is more than reasonable,” Joan said cheekily. “I suppose I forgive you.”
“You’re all grace and charm,” Catherine replied, a playful tone to her voice. “It’s been an age, I’ll call upon you soon. We need to talk, and I want to hear all about”—she paused, as if halting herself from revealing some secret—“the party.”
Rowles wondered what she’d meant to say originally. Was there a suitor in Joan’s life? Perhaps a gentleman she favored and had confided her interest in to her friend? It was well known that Joan was a close acquaintance of the Duchess of Wesley. His mind circled with curiosity, but he pushed it aside as Quin addressed him.
“And you, are you well?”
“As can be expected,” Rowles answered. “I’ll be doing better if I can ever get back to Cambridge. Tell me I am not the only one who desperately misses that place.”
Quin shook his head. “Every day. Someday we’ll be old and have sons to carry on the title and we shall return to teaching, you and I. We’ll be the disagreeable old codgers who torment the new students.”
Rowles chuckled at the thought. “Someday indeed.” Quin was far ahead in that department. No doubt he’d be boasting several heirs in the next few years. However, Rowles didn’t share that same optimistic outlook. To have heirs, one needed to have a wife, something he was without.
Thankfully.
Yet his traitorous eyes shot to Joan. Her expression was restrained, as if diligently working to be proper and not give in to the wide and dramatic smile that had so captivated him earlier that day. He was thankful for her restraint. The thought of other gentlemen being on the receiving end of one of her brilliant looks made his fists clench.
That smacked of jealousy.
And he had no right to such a strong emotion. Yet there it was, without invitation, and he suspected it wasn’t leaving anytime soon. As if spurred on by the offending feeling, he approached Morgan. “And how are you this evening? Better?”
Morgan shot him a teasing glare. “About as good as you are.”
“Ah, then you are excellent,” Rowles replied with a smirk. He took in the room and noticed the furtive peeks cast at them. “If anything, I think our bruising makes us more dashing, maybe lending a dangerous air to our persons.” He shrugged and turned to his friend.
“Speak for yourself.Iam dashing and dangerous naturally.”
“And humble and reserved,” Rowles said with a hint of sarcasm.