Page 9 of A Marriage for the Marquess (Barrington’s Brigade #1)
L ord Glenraven had scarcely put down his lemonade glass while watching Miss Hayward take to the dance floor with Mr. Harrow when he found himself the target of a determined matriarch.
Lady Wetherby was the first to approach him. With a predatory gleam in her eye, her daughter fluttered beside her like a trapped sparrow. “Lord Glenraven, have you met my Annabelle? A more accomplished pianoforte player you’ll not find in all of London.” The woman pushed the young lady forward.
“Lady Annabelle, I understand you have quite the talent for the pianoforte.” He had no intention of slighting the girl because of her meddlesome mother. Instead, he gave her his full attention. “Music has always been a refuge for me, especially after a long day.”
Annabelle’s eyes lit up at the mention of her favorite pastime. “Oh, yes, my lord. There’s nothing quite like losing oneself in a piece by Chopin or Beethoven.” Her voice became steadier as she spoke of her passion.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Glenraven’s expression was one of genuine enthusiasm. “Perhaps you might treat us with a performance at the next gathering? I would be most eager to hear you play.”
The young lady nodded, a blush coloring her cheeks. “I would be honored, Lord Glenraven.” Her earlier awkwardness was replaced with a newfound confidence.
“I hope you will excuse me, but I believe I’m required elsewhere. It’s been a pleasure.” He retreated to the safety of the punch bowl across the room in front of the mirrored wall.
No sooner had he taken a sip of punch when Mrs. Bancroft descended upon him, her daughter in tow—a lovely figure who seemed more interested in her reflection than his company. “Lord Glenraven, my daughter has just returned from her Grand Tour. Perhaps you could share your experiences of the Continent with her?”
Before Glenraven could muster a response, a familiar voice came to his rescue. “Glenraven.” Barrington clapped him on the shoulder and glanced at Mrs. Bancroft and her daughter. “I beg your pardon, but his lordship is needed.”
“Ladies, another time, perhaps.” He left the eager mother with a regretful smile.
He walked away with Barrington. “Thank you for that. I hadn’t remembered how I hate these events.”
“I’ve been watching…from afar. I’ve seen you speak to many young ladies but dance with only one. That’s good progress.”
With a wry smile and an amused glint in his eye, Glenraven offered a subtle shrug, his expression both amusement and resignation.
“Might I suggest a retreat to the library? A moment alone might do you good.”
“A splendid idea, Barrington.” Grateful for the escape, he nodded. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Glenraven entered the library and quietly closed the door behind him. He sighed in relief and absorbed the gentle hush that settled around him. He wandered between the bookcases, his fingers tracing the leather spines. Engrossed in a volume of ancient history, it took him a few minutes to realize that the door had opened. Miss Hayward had slipped in. He stood still as she scanned the room, unaware of his presence hidden by a tall bookcase.
“Miss Hayward,” he greeted, his voice a low murmur echoing softly among the shelves as he stepped out from between the bookcase. “Fate seems to have a hand in our encounters this evening.”
Juliet turned to face him. He noticed a hint of delight in her eyes. “Indeed, Lord Glenraven. It appears we share a fondness for literature as well as dance.” Her words were a soft bridge to common ground, spoken with an ease that contradicted the social whirlwind they each sought to escape.
In the quiet of the library, away from the crowd of suitors and the watchful eyes of matchmaking mothers, they found relief in a display of maps detailing the far reaches of the British Empire. “It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” Glenraven mused, tracing a line along the coast of India. “Think of the stories these lands could tell.”
Juliet leaned in, her finger pointing to a small island. “And yet, for all its vastness, it’s the tiny places that often hold the richest tales,” she countered with a playful glint in her eye.
He chuckled, meeting her gaze. “True, Miss Hayward. I suppose it’s much like a ballroom—a miniature of society where every individual has a story.”
“The difference being, in a ballroom, one must wade through a sea of verbal and physical embellishments to find the truth.”
His laughter mingled with hers, and for a moment, he wasn’t a marquess. They were two kindred spirits delighting in the dance of words. He didn’t want their exchange to end. Each comment and retort was richer than the last. And Miss Hayward gave every indication that she was enjoying the banter as well.
Reluctantly, she stepped away from the maps. “I should return to the ballroom.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, the unspoken desire to stay unmistakable.
“Perhaps we can continue our exploration of empires and anecdotes at another time.” His invitation was genuinely offered.
“I would like that very much, Lord Glenraven.” Her smile lingered as she turned to leave.
Juliet went on her way, leaving Glenraven with a more than pleasant impression of their brief connection. He went to the cellarette and poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid doing little to distract his thoughts from the captivating Miss Hayward.
He remained in the library, the taste of whiskey on his lips and the image of Juliet Hayward in his mind. He savored the quiet, allowing himself to reflect on the evening’s unexpected turns. With a final sip, he set the glass down and made his way back to the ballroom.
As he emerged, Barrington approached him with a knowing smile. “Glenraven, I had half a mind you’d taken up residence in the card room.” He clapped him on the shoulder.
Glenraven shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “No, Barrington, I found myself otherwise engaged.” The memory of Juliet’s intelligent eyes and quick wit was still fresh.
Barrington raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Oh? And pray tell, with whom did you find such engaging company?”
“It was Miss Hayward,” Glenraven confessed, and he couldn’t help the warmth that colored his tone. “We shared a rather enlightening conversation.”
Barrington’s smile broadened, and he gave Glenraven an approving nod. “Miss Hayward, you say? Baron Fairmont’s daughter. Excellent choice, my friend. She’s a gem among the ton —a rare find indeed.”
“Indeed, she is.” Glenraven smiled at the very thought of her.
“Shall we venture into the card room? I believe it’s time you reacquainted yourself with the old guard.”
With a nod and the vision of Miss Hayward vanishing, Glenraven followed Barrington.
They entered a room alive with the jingle of coins and the rustle of cards. Familiar faces sat around the table, each absorbed in their game of chance—whist, loo, and faro.
“Seems to be a harmless enough assembly tonight,” Barrington remarked, observing the players. “No fortunes lost as of yet, I presume?”
Glenraven leaned against the wall, his arms folded as he observed. “Indeed, it appears to be a friendly game this evening, Though I suspect the night is still young.” They studied the game in silence. The tension in the room was apparent, even with the absence of high stakes. Glenraven’s gaze drifted, not quite capturing the thrill of the play as his thoughts lingered on Miss Hayward’s last smile before she departed the library.
Barrington nudged him gently. “You seem distant, my friend. Perhaps the fresh air on the terrace would clear your mind?”
Glenraven pushed off the wall, left the card room, and stepped into the cool night.
He found her there, gazing at the moonlit gardens below. “Miss Hayward, you’ve stolen my idea.” He joined her by the balustrade.
She turned to him, a soft smile on her lips. “It seems we are of one mind tonight, Lord Glenraven.”