Balls were the worst sort of social event.
One month after Lady Elizabeth Wayland’s arrival in London, the Season began full force. She received her voucher to Almack’s, that most-coveted place of stale biscuits and overeager girls in search of a groom.
As in Seasons past, Elizabeth loathed Almack’s on sight.
Tonight’s rout at Lady Charleston’s was bound to be just as detestable, but refusing the invitation would have been a slight too large to justify. Elizabeth’s father, a wealthy earl, and her mother, the daughter of a duke, were well liked by the haut monde. Their pristine reputations kept their calendar full. Her brother, John, was also making a name for himself in political circles.
Quite unlike Elizabeth, who preferred a secluded life at her grandmother’s estate. She’d been caring for the dowager duchess nigh unto fifteen years, ever since she was sent to live at Windermar as a young girl. Her mother and father resided in London for much of the year, but spent the heat of summer rusticating at their own estate in Kent.
Elizabeth adored her grandmother’s spacious home. Located in Cheshire County of Northern England, it was a three day ride to London. Escaping her parents’ abundance of charitable events caused Elizabeth a great feeling of accomplishment. They insisted her looks did not matter, but she could not help but feel that the large birthmark on her face made others uncomfortable.
No, it was far better to remain with her books and her adorable if decidedly eccentric grandmother.
Except each year when the Season rolled around.
Unfortunately, her parents refused to budge on the notion she should marry, despite her pleas. They cited reasons such as decorum, responsibility and her future. But Elizabeth knew that no man would ever want her, except be it for true love. Still, to satisfy her parents’ demands, every year she gathered her pluck and attended soirees, balls and dinner parties. She only went to enough to appease her parents. Once she’d participated in a few select events, they often let her return to the country before the end of the Season.
Frowning now, she picked her way across Lady Charleston’s overly crowded, giggle-saturated ballroom. Nothing was worse than being forced to dance with multiple partners who either stared at the large pinkish blotch covering her right cheekbone in pity or avoided looking at her altogether. Indignation burned through her, little salving the hurt that scraped the surface of her emotions.
She dropped her dance card to the floor, deliberately sliding it away with her slipper. Let someone else dance the night away. She longed to be finished, to return to Windermar and meld back into her normal life routine.
She left the ballroom, certain she remembered a library nearby from Seasons past when she’d made a similar escape. Spotting a familiar door, she sighed with relief and pushed it open.
The welcome scent of leather and paper greeted her. The library. She finally felt as though she could breathe. She inhaled deeply. Her corset stretched with the movement, and her lungs filled with less-congested air. Sweet Jenna had kept the strings loose. Elizabeth made note to give her lady’s maid a gift.
It had been trying indeed, attending dress fittings, fixing her hair, ordering new bonnets. Two fat curls dropped over each of her shoulders, and her pale blue gown had been designed with one goal in mind: to fetch a husband.
As if she planned to do such a thing. She would finagle some reading instead. She doubted her mother would notice her missing. After several minutes of perusal, she selected a book. Bound in cracked leather, the novel looked decrepit and, oh, so very intriguing. She could not recall ever reading this one before. She would merely take a moment, really only a few minutes, to traverse this story before returning to the ballroom. Very gently, with the tip of a finger, she eased to the first page and lost herself in a world far more exciting than the one she presently inhabited.
“Head in a book again, eh?”
At the sound of Miles Hawthorne’s husky voice, she looked up from what was actually a fascinating treatise on African populations. A wayward strand of hair fell across her vision, and she blew it away. Her brother’s friend, and her childhood nemesis, stood in the doorway. His clothing was neatly pressed, his fine black Hessians polished to a spit shine.
She glanced at her own skirts, creased from sitting. Most likely, she looked a fright. “Hawthorne, what a surprise. Have you taken up dancing?” she asked.
Not bothering to wait for his response, she eyed the book in her lap, trying to find the paragraph she’d been reading before his appearance. She traced the letters lovingly, each curve and bend a precious entrance to another world. Ah, there she’d been. The Maasai threw a rungu. She frowned at the page. How utterly painful. But a natural weapon, to be sure. She certainly would not want to have to dodge the aim of one of those warriors.
A crude line drawing on the next page sent her imagination wandering into the wilds of the Sahara. Stumbling over broken pieces of...well, whatever was in the Sahara? Perhaps it was better to imagine dredging through dark dunes of rust-colored sand. The grains scraped the palms of her hand as she stumbled up a hill. Skeletal shrubs snagged her dress. And then a lion appeared, its mighty mane—were there lions in the Sahara? And would she be wearing a dress? It seemed she might wear something more luxurious and strange... More research was required.
This might even be a topic the Society of Scientific Minds would be interested in reading. Her last article on astronomy had been well received by the group.
“Bitt, did you hear me?”
The nickname filtered through her daydreams. Snapping the book closed, she dragged her gaze to meet Miles’s remonstrative glare. “I have repeatedly told you not to call me that horrid name. What are you doing at a ball, anyhow? Do not tell me you are in search of a wife?”
“I will never get married again.” He chuckled lightly, though she had the feeling that his words carried a deep weight. He meant them, certainly.
She did not blame him one whit. She had heard rumors about his tempestuous marriage. She studied him now, wondering why he looked different.
Same lanky frame. Gray eyes, though she’d seen them turn green when he was in a temper, and unfortunately, his tempers happened often. Nothing violent, just long silences and tempestuous looks. She preferred his authenticity to the sticky disingenuousness of the haut monde.
What she actually preferred was isolation.
His eyes held seriousness tonight. Despite his moody temperament, he managed to sport sun-streaked hair as though he spent time outside rather than brooding indoors. The blond strands must be from horse riding. Crooked smile...wait...she paused, eyes narrowed, and then gasped.
“Why, Miles,