Page 7 of An Earl Like You (Games Earls Play #6)

“Thank you, George.” He took the tray with a sigh and stepped out into Berkeley Square, but he was obliged to wait while a parade of carriages made their way past the door, each one more fashionable than the last, with brass fittings and lacquered paint gleaming in the sunlight.

There was no shortage of fine equipages in Berkeley Square.

The ton delighted in showing off their elegant taste, and he’d seen similar parades so many times he wouldn’t have paid these carriages much attention at all, but at the end of the procession was a vis-à-vis phaeton painted a distinctive deep violet color, so dark it was nearly black, with silver-accented wheels and sumptuous pale gray velvet seats.

It was already past him when he noticed it, but he didn’t need to see the crest emblazoned on the door to know whose carriage it was.

Lady Patience Fosberry, one of the undeniable queens of London society was back in Town, and she’d come out to Berkeley Square today to make certain everyone knew it.

She wasn’t alone. Three young ladies were in the carriage with her, the ends of the brightly colored silk ribbons trimming their bonnets fluttering in the breeze.

The carriage passed too quickly for him to see their faces, but he did catch a glimpse of golden curls peeking out from under the wide straw brims.

The barouche circled a few times until it found a shady spot on the other side of the square only a few paces away from Lady Laetitia’s carriage.

He followed in its wake, dodging people and horses as he went and by some miracle holding onto the tray with the melting ices atop it, the sour smell of pineapple making his nose twitch with revulsion.

It was too much. The nauseating scent of the ices, the relentless pounding in his head, Lady Laetitia’s imperious commands—he’d had quite enough of it all for one day.

He’d deliver the ices to Lady Laetitia and her friends, bid Lady Fosberry a brief welcome to London, as she was one of only a handful of aristocrats who didn’t bore him to death, and then he’d take his leave.

But as he neared the knot of carriages on the other side of the square and got a better look at the three young ladies seated in Lady Fosberry’s carriage his footsteps slowed, and his heart gave a painful lurch, stealing his breath.

Those young ladies looked just like…

No, surely not. It was impossible.

In all the years they’d been friends, he’d only known her to venture into Town twice. She and her sisters were notoriously averse to the noise and grime of London and preferred to remain at their country estate in Kent.

Yet somehow, impossibly, they were here, not five paces away from him.

Even after all these years, he’d never mistake them.

Margaret and Sarah were on the bench directly behind the driver, their faces animated as they took in the crowd around them. As he watched, Margaret leaned forward and said something to Lady Fosberry. She and the lady next to her turned to glance behind them, and the next thing he knew…

He was gazing into a familiar pair of bluebell-blue eyes.

It had been over a decade since he’d seen her, but as soon as her eyes met his, he knew her at once. There was only one lady in all of England—in all the world, possibly—who had eyes such a deep shade of blue.

Hattie Parrish.

Just like that, a dozen years melted away, and he was back in Kent, lying under the beech tree, the sweet, iced cakes she’d brought in the picnic basket still thick on his tongue, and she was beside him, stringing the lapful of daisies she’d gathered into delicate white and yellow chains.

But this was altogether a different Hattie than the child he remembered. She was no longer the carefree little sprite he recalled, her skirts streaked with dirt and a layer of damp earth under her fingernails.

Of course, she wasn’t. Had he imagined time stood still in Kent?

In the twelve years that had passed, she’d blossomed into a young lady.

Her wild tangle of fair curls had been tamed into an elegant chignon, and cheeks that had once been ruddy were now pale and smooth, with just the faintest sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose from the kiss of the sun.

She was wearing an eye-catching rose-colored gown, the childish, grass-stained pinafores long since laid aside.

She was unspeakably lovely, quite the loveliest lady he’d ever seen.

And all at once, he was unfairly, unaccountably furious.

What was she doing here? She didn’t belong here. Not in dirty, crowded London where there was no fresh air to be had, and every breath was tainted with filth. Not here, where the ton gossiped and sneered at young ladies from the country behind their backs, and sometimes to their faces.

Not here , where scoundrels and fortune-hunters lurked around every corner, just waiting for a sweet, na?ve young lady like Hattie Parrish to stumble into their path.

He stalked toward Lady Fosberry’s carriage, everything fading to an indistinct blur around him except her face. Her face was all that mattered, all he could see.

The face that lived in his memories and haunted his dreams.

She saw him at once, as if the intensity of his gaze compelled hers. Their eyes met, and a dozen years fell away as if they’d never happened.

The closer he got, the more befuddled she became, her eyes going wide and a pink flush rising in her cheeks. “Cass,” she breathed, when he reached the carriage at last. “I—I…”

She trailed off, her cheeks now scarlet, and Lady Fosberry stepped in, offering him a gracious smile. “Lord Windham! My goodness, where did you come from? I had no notion you were in London for the season. How do you do, my lord?”

Cass opened his mouth, but all that emerged was a strangled breath.

Hattie shouldn’t be here. He didn’t want her here. Not now, after it had taken every bit of strength he possessed to let her letters go unanswered, one after the other, her increasingly frantic pleas for him to write to her tearing at his heart.

Yet here she was, close enough he could touch her, and that…no, that couldn’t happen. He’d cut off their friendship because he’d had to, because she was better off without the friendship of the wicked Earl of Windham.

Since he’d left Kent he’d become, every inch of him, his father’s son.

“Cassian!” Margaret gave him a tentative smile. “How do you do? It’s lovely to see you again after so many years.”

He didn’t reply. He couldn’t muster a single word. He could only gaze at Hattie. He wanted to tell her to go, to leave London at once and never return, yet at the same time, the boy he’d once been wanted to beg her to stay.

So, he said nothing, the unspoken words tangling in his throat.

Margaret glanced uneasily at Lady Fosberry when he didn’t return her greeting, and once again her ladyship rushed to fill the awkward silence. “Have you brought us some ices, Lord Windham? How very kind of you. I’ll summon a waiter, shall I? There are four of us, and only three?—”

“What are you doing here?” He wanted to look away from her. It would be easier if he could pretend her eyes weren’t as blue as he remembered—cornflowers and bluebonnets, lobelia and irises with the delicate tracing of white on their deep violet petals.

But it was no use. She was here, and he couldn’t tear his gaze from her face.

Her delicate pink lips parted. “Cass? Is that really you? I-I can hardly believe you’re standing here. I’m so happy to see you. Did you?—”

“You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing in London, Lady Harriet?”