Page 14 of A Match of Misfortune (Bachelors of Blackstone’s #7)
“It must be hard to see the true blessings in your life when everything always goes your way.” Cecily must have felt regret for her poignant rebuke and wished to soften the blow.
It was not like her to offer goodwill toward him, and Nash was curious as to where this would go.
“I suppose there is nothing you can do about it, which is probably for the best. You would be a wreck if you were made to live like the rest of us, traversing from disappointment to disappointment.”
Despite his determination to suppress his amusement, the corners of Nash’s lips twitched. “Is that so?”
“Undoubtedly. Can you imagine what it would be like for you to not be the best at something? Or worse, to have to work as hard as others must in order to achieve your goals?”
“You make it seem as though the only reason I’m good at anything or have achieved what I have is because of luck. ”
“Is it not?” Cecily sent him a playful look, and Nash simply stared at her. She must sincerely feel wretched about speaking the truth to resort to such extreme measures. “How could you truly ever know if it’s luck or not when good fortune is so completely partial to you?”
Nash could no longer help himself, and his smile broke free. “I suppose there is nothing to do but accept my lot in life.”
“I’m afraid you must, for what else is there to do?”
“If I could give it away, I would share it with you. That way you needn’t traverse through life from disappointment to disappointment .”
She laughed at his poorly executed impression of her, and Nash could hardly believe it.
Had he ever heard her laugh before? A humorless laugh, certainly, but a genuine one?
A laugh he had caused? He would have remembered if he’d experienced such a mesmerizing sound.
For as addictive as it was to earn her scowls and scoffs, he was certain that making her laugh would become a whole new level of motivation for him.
“Well,” she said, turning her gaze back to the couples who were now finishing their portion of the dance.
“I’ll gladly take any luck that you can spare. ”
Caught up in the cordial moment between them, Nash reached for her hand. Her eyes widened as he lifted her knuckles to his lips, and an unexpected shock raced through him. “It is yours to have, then. All of it.”
She glanced at her hand in his, her chest rising and falling more quickly than when she had finished her dancing.
Slowly, her eyes lifted and their gazes met.
The way she looked at him reminded him of their parting interaction all those years ago.
There was hesitation in her eyes, but behind it, he thought he glimpsed something more.
Involuntarily, his gaze dropped to her lips as the sound of couples applauding the orchestra surrounded them.
Cecily blinked, the peculiar moment between them ending in an instant. She pulled her hand from his grasp, her cheeks blazing with color. “Thank you for the dance.”
She dipped a brief curtsy and turned from him.
“Cecily,” he called, not even certain why he felt so entirely desperate to speak to her.
To go after her. She weaved between the couples filtering off the dance floor, and Nash followed.
His movements were clumsy and less agile than hers, but he continued forward until the toe of his foot caught on something hard and solid.
His gaze moved downward to see what had nearly set him off his balance when he heard a gasp just ahead of him.
Lady Darlington stood wide-eyed, directly in his path.
Nash tried to stop, but he was moving too quickly. Too forcefully. The last thing he saw besides the startled expression of the matron was the glass of punch she held in her hand. At the force of their collision, dark red liquid shot upward, flowing down again on the face and gown of his hostess.
Gasps echoed around the ballroom, and Nash froze, unsure what to do.
“Forgive me,” he said, finally thinking to pull the handkerchief from his pocket.
The measly square of fabric would not be much help, but it was something.
“Here.” He lifted it to her face to collect some of the droplets that were now dripping down her cheeks.
She tugged at the handkerchief. “Allow me,” she said, her voice clipped.
“Again, I am so?—”
She lifted her hand to stop his apologies, a forced smile on her lips.
“It was an accident,” she said, shifting her attention to the gaping onlookers surrounding them.
“I was not looking where I was going. But I will likely need more than this—” she lifted the white handkerchief now saturated with red liquid—“to help me right myself.”
“Yes, of course.” Nash glanced around. There had to be napkins at the refreshment table.
He started forward so quickly that he didn’t take any consideration for the spilled punch that had puddled on the floor at their feet.
With his first step, the slippery liquid sent him scrambling for his balance.
Instinctively, he reached out, desperate to right himself, but the person he latched onto, the only person standing near enough, was Lady Darlington herself.
Her short, stout figure was in no way capable of supporting his massive frame, and when he fell backward, he unintentionally pulled the shrieking hostess down with him.
He had but a flash of sound reasoning before he made contact with the floor, and he cradled Lady Darlington against him to lessen her impact.
The shattering of the glass on the hard floor could barely be heard over the second wave of gasps that sounded.
“Oh, heavens!” Lady Darlington spluttered, her face only inches from Nash’s and blazing with embarrassment. She reached up a hand, hardly able to lift it while being so awkwardly pressed chest-to-chest against him. “Someone help me up at once!”
Several gentlemen stepped forward, offering support to their fallen hostess and assisting her to her feet.
No one attempted to help Nash. As a few fawning ladies ushered Lady Darlington from the room, Nash lifted himself onto his elbows.
His ears rang violently and his head was spinning.
When he ran a hand across the back of it, he winced.
In his attempts to break Lady Darlington’s fall, his own head had taken a sound hit on the floor.
“Nash?” It was Rothsburg navigating through the broken glass and kneeling at his side, a look of concern on his face. “What on earth?”
“Help me up.” Nash put out a hand for Rothsburg to grab. With effort on both their parts, Nash finally made it to his feet. He swayed slightly, and Rothsburg looped Nash’s arm around his shoulder.
“Let’s get you home.”
Nash started forward with Rothsburg’s assistance, realizing that the collective gaze of the room, including the orchestra from their places in the gallery, was upon him. Countless hands blocked people’s whisperings from view. Nash had never felt so sheepish in his life.
In fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt sheepish at all.
What the deuce had happened?