Page 14 of Diamond of the Season (Heiress #1)

Chapter

Fourteen

T hat dress was certainly not what he had ordered from the modiste for Lady Rosalind.

Nathaniel could not tear his gaze away from the atrocious gown that clung to her form. The peach frock did nothing for her complexion. In fact, it failed to bring out the luminous blue of her eyes and, somehow, rendered her pallid and sickly—an appearance utterly unbefitting the vibrant young woman she truly was.

Rosalind offered a polite smile as she approached him and Lord Issacs, who had arrived early—perhaps seeking the best seat in the room to avoid the prying matchmakers. She dipped into a curtsy, and Nathaniel could see the nervous tension in her stance. Was her apprehension born of the memory of their ill-advised kiss beneath the willow, or did she sense his own discontent with the gown ?

"You look beautiful, Lady Rosalind. Are you ready to face the ton ?" Nathaniel inquired, extending his arm to lead her into the ballroom.

"Of course, thank you, Your Grace. For everything."

Her voice was soft, but Nathaniel longed to ask more—why she wasn’t wearing one of her new gowns, why this dress left her so vulnerable. Over the past days, he had craved every opportunity to be near her, each glimpse of her a refreshing draught after a long, arduous ride.

Yet duty constrained him. He was her guardian, and he had spared no expense to ensure only gentlemen of impeccable character and wealth attended her coming-out ball. He needed her to be happy and secure—even if it meant keeping himself at a distance, away from any temptation that might compel him to corner her in a dark room and test whether the spark from their kiss could ignite an uncontrollable blaze. He suspected it could.

They entered the ballroom, and within the hour, hundreds of guests gathered, each offering felicitations for a successful Season. Rosalind bore the burdens of her role as hostess with grace, but it was not long before Lord Felton—a refined earl from Kent, whom Nathaniel had high hopes for as a prospective suitor for Rosalind—whisked her away to dance. Lord Felton was of a mature age, wealthy and, by many accounts, handsome—a gentleman whose love of the countryside Nathaniel believed might appeal to her sensibilities.

As Nathaniel watched Lord Felton sweep Rosalind about the ballroom floor, he felt the intrusive warmth of Lady Smithe’s hand slip about his arm. Her eyes, calculating and sharp, tracked Rosalind as though the young debutante were her own prized possession. Nathaniel, aware that neither Lady Smithe nor Rosalind was his wife, discreetly extricated himself from Lady Smithe’s grasp, placing a measured distance between them.

"The gown isn't what I expected Lady Rosalind would be wearing this evening," he murmured darkly as he observed the scene. "This one is stained, and its color flatters her not at all." His eyes followed Rosalind and for the life of him he could not look away. A footman passed with a tray of wine, and he accepted a glass, downing a much-needed sip as he watched her laugh and converse with her gentleman admirer.

"Oh yes, there was a mistake at the modiste. I ordered a pastel-lilac ballgown, yet they delivered a gown of the deepest pink I’ve ever seen. I made Rosalind change before we came down—she cannot be seen in such a risqué color. Her Season would be over before it even began."

Annoyance thrummed through Nathaniel as he finished his drink and set it upon a nearby mantel. "So whose gown is that she is wearing? It barely fits her frame, and it is stained! Whoever deemed that gown appropriate must be held accountable." He cast a pointed glance toward Lady Smithe, noting with a grim satisfaction that her expression was contrite. He knew full well who had forced the change that left Rosalind in this unsuitable dress. Lady Smithe, it appeared, was not proving to be the best companion for his ward.

"It is only a small stain, Your Grace," she defended softly. "No one will pay much heed to it. Lady Rosalind is both pretty and personable—the men will favor engaging conversation over anything regarding her attire for the night."

Nathaniel raised his brows, unconvinced, yet unwilling to let Lady Smithe spoil Rosalind's coming-out ball or Season. "I will send word to the modiste that henceforth the gowns must be made in the colors chosen by Lady Rosalind. She is three-and-twenty. We cannot treat her as if she were a child of eighteen. Do not defy my wishes a second time, my lady, or I shall be forced to replace you as her companion for the remainder of the Season."

"Oh no, Your Grace," Lady Smithe replied, her tone edged with frustration. "The dress from the modiste did not fit well across the bust, and I had to secure another for her in haste. While I may not entirely agree with allowing Lady Rosalind to choose her own colors for a debutante’s gown, I will, of course, abide by your rules. Whatever dresses are delivered over the coming days shall be worn, you can be assured of that."

"I do hope so," Nathaniel murmured bitterly. "For the gown she wears this evening seems designed to ruin her chances."

Lady Smithe's eyes widened, her cheeks flushing as Nathaniel's words cut deep. He knew then that her actions had been deliberate—a calculated act meant to undermine Rosalind. "She's too beautiful to have her prospects ruined," Lady Smithe countered dismissively, though she avoided his gaze. "Look at her in Lord Felton’s arms—they seem to float in perfect harmony. I dare say it will only be a matter of weeks before she is whisked away on a proposal, removed from the marriage market."

A chill ran down Nathaniel's spine at the thought. He rolled his shoulders, disturbed by the idea of Rosalind, his cherished ward, being married off and living in another man's home—whether in London or the countryside. The notion of her warming another man's bed turned his stomach. "I will not rush Lady Rosalind, nor will you," he declared firmly. "She is to choose for herself when she finds a gentleman who loves her as dearly as she deserves."

"Oh, of course, Your Grace. I would not wish anything less for our dearest charge," Lady Smithe replied, her tone sugary but insincere in Nathaniel's ears. He debated inwardly whether he should have hired her for the Season. Recently widowed, Lady Smithe seemed perfect for a companion. Yet now her behavior struck him as unnervingly spiteful. There was something in her manner around Rosalind that set his nerves on edge.

As the dance ended, Lord Felton returned Rosalind to his side. She offered his lordship a perfect curtsy. But before the next set began, Nathaniel reached for Rosalind’s hand and pulled her onto the ballroom floor. She slipped into his arms as naturally as if they were meant to be, and for a fleeting moment, his mind was bombarded with the memory of their kiss. He drank in the sight of her—even in the ghastly, stained gown, she remained one of the most beautiful women he had ever beheld.

"Did you enjoy your dance with Lord Felton? Is he a contender for your heart?" he asked in a low, measured tone as he led her about the floor.

A soft, musical laugh escaped her. "Possibly—he is very kind, and he loves the country as much as I do. We might indeed be well matched in that regard." Her eyes sparkled, and as Nathaniel’s gaze traveled appreciatively over her form—lingering on the gentle swell of her bosom and the graceful curve of her neck—he felt a familiar ache stir within him .

"I'm sorry about the dress," he continued, his tone tender yet resolute. "I will send word to the modiste that henceforth, no pastel shall be made for you. You are three-and-twenty, and you deserve to shine in colors that suit you, not ones that wash you out."

"Will you truly do that for me?" Her smile broadened with relief. "That is very sweet of you, Your Grace."

Though his words were kind, Nathaniel’s heart harbored a storm of conflicted desire—a dark, unspoken longing he could not easily name. Sweet? If only she knew there was nothing sweet floating through his mind at present.

If anything, it was quite the opposite.