George tapped a flawless shoe on flagstone. “Everyone’s abuzz about which dance cards will bear the privilege of your name.”
“You said that an hour ago.” He scanned the ballroom again.
The room was a crush of panniered-skirts and frizzed hair. The square, ratted style was all the rage. Mrs. Chatham had blessedly not given into that fashion, which made him grateful for her genteel, countrified life. He liked her pretty blond locks, but the woman who bore them was nowhere to be found.
George chuckled and smoothed his jabot. “She’s not coming.”
“She?”
“Mrs. Chatham. The woman you’ve been searching for all night like a bloodhound.”
“Why do you say that?”
George’s gaze raked him from head to toe. “Your sudden change of fashion gives you away. Men who don’t dress well sing a different tune when they want to catch a woman’s eye.”
His brother had him there.
He’d surprised Simms and called for the new black, superfine cutaway coat his tailor had delivered before the house party. An onyx silk waistcoat, ending at his waist (unlike the outdated one he’d worn today) added to the ensemble. Ink-black breeches covered his legs. Severe. Dramatic. He stood out in a crowd adorned in confectionary colors.
The same crowd with the power to crush unassuming widows.
Once the languor of their afternoon kiss had diminished, he’d been careful not to mention Mrs. Chatham to Simms. Protective even. He didn’t want to sully her reputation.
His mind was already set when it came to his neighbor. He was going to marry her though he hadn’t mentioned it to a soul. A minimum courtship was in order, then he’d ask her.
After today’s kiss, how could she say no?
George scrutinized him, humming thoughtfully. “Perhaps your torn breeches gave you away? Or the hair pins abandoned on your floor?”
He cursed under his breath.
George produced two wire hair pins and passed them discreetly over. “Your secret is safe with me. Simms was too busy fussing over your shoe buckles to notice me picking them up.”
“It’s not what you think,” he said, stuffing the pins into his coat pocket.
“There’s the rub. It doesn’t matter what I think.” George’s arm flung wide at the ball. “It doesn’t matter what they think. What matters is you. Your happiness.”
His happiness. A gift rarely bestowed on people of privilege. They enjoyed wealth and comfort, a fair trade for duty. But this sudden advice on happiness piqued him.
Was his brother encouraging a dalliance? George was highly attuned to who was duchess material and who wasn’t. London’s finer doors would never open for Mrs. Chatham, a widow from Kent. They would for a duchess. It didn’t matter. He liked her exactly as she was.
A baron and his wife passed by on their way to stroll through the gardens. Greetings were exchanged, pleasantries said, but he itched to pursue George’s unexpected admonition.
He swung around to face the lawn. “Why so concerned about my happiness?”
George matched him, bracing both hands on the stone balustrade. “Because you’ve never forgiven yourself for being the one to survive the accident.”
He tensed from head to toe, his mid-section clenching as if he’d taken a blow. The Richland family, while loving and good, were prone to weaving delicately around unpleasant topics. Dancing by. Skimming over. Treading on eggshells from time to time. Never hitting a problem head on.
“What makes you think that?” His voice was deceptively calm. A storm threatened to erupt inside him. He held onto the stone, needing its solidness.
“You’ve been irritable all year.”
He was aghast. “Our family suffered great loss.”
George nodded with small concession. “Yes. Father and Darius will forever be on our hearts, but we must move on.”
“I have.” Now he was defensive. “I honor them by fulfilling my duties, but I fail to see why you’re spewing balderdash about forgiveness or the lack thereof.”
“You’re alone far too much.”
“I prefer to keep to myself.”
“That’s true. You’re far too aloof.”
He flicked an unseen speck off his sleeve. “Reserved, thank you.”
“And you’ve given up architecture.”
He flinched. Now they were getting somewhere. George’s words pierced the marrow of his bone. Even he heard the misery in his voice when he said, “I built follies, not grand cathedrals.”
“But you loved building them all the same. I can tell you miss it. Don’t deny it.”
He wouldn’t.
George delivered another assault. “Don’t stop pursuing the things that give you pleasure.”
“There is being the Duke of Richland,” he said dryly.
“So? Be a duke and a builder of follies.” George paused before dropping his voice an octave. “Mrs. Chatham told the dowager you should take up more building projects. She’s convinced the work makes you happy.”
His head swiveled sharply to his brother.
George whistled softly. “Like a bloodhound at the mention of her name.”
He was baffled. The day had opened up a world of possibilities after his interlude with the widow. The night was proving to be a puzzle. He’d kissed Mrs. Chatham, or she’d kissed him (a distinction not worth splicing), yet she wasn’t at the ball.
