Page 8 of Miss Hawthorne’s Unlikely Husband (The Troublemakers Trilogy #3)

I t had been a successful ball for Elodia, by and large.

No less than six dances with sons of affluent families, and no mishaps with her shoes or her dress.

Now she stood near the door with her father and Isolde waiting for their carriage to be brought around so they could leave.

If everything went according to plan, then flowers, calling cards and requests for promenades would follow.

She wasn’t overly interested in them, however.

There was only one person who she was interested in and he’d been the first person to dance with her.

It had been something from a dream, searching for a familiar face only to look up and see him striding across the room with a smile and a twinkle in his dark eyes.

Richard was always handsome, his clothing cut to perfection, his color pairings exquisitely chosen.

In evening wear, however, he was breathtaking.

The snow-white shirt and cravat against the warm tone of his skin, all that dark silken hair perfectly styled, his beautiful face with its high forehead and cheekbones, carved out of amber.

Her heart had been racing from the first glance to the moment he walked away, with his touch still burning through her dress and gloves. His scent still in her nostrils.

All her dances with other men had been to draw attention away from the fact that Richard had spoken to her so long without her father there and danced a waltz with her.

If she had abstained after that, people would talk and assumptions would be made.

She didn’t want any gossip spreading about her or him, especially when there was no cause for it.

What she wanted more than anything was his love given freely and openly.

Not his compliance to her father’s will or social convention.

He was an honorable and decent man. If he suspected that there were rumors about them, if he thought she had been compromised, especially by him, he would offer for her, whether he wanted her or not. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than that.

“Mr. Thornfield left early,” Isolde said to Elodia as the carriage drove up.

“Did he?” Elodia mused innocently. “I hadn’t noticed.” It was, of course, a lie. There was nothing she noticed faster than Richard’s absence. He’d left half an hour after their dance without taking to the floor with anyone else. Was there some underlying meaning to that?

“Oh, I wonder why,” Isolde continued.

“Perhaps he didn’t find anything to his taste,” Elodia commented.

“Perhaps,”

At least I’ll have you for company…

They climbed into the velvet upholstered carriage, Isolde beside Elodia and Lord Melbroke across from both of them. Elodia started removing her gloves, her fingers working at the small pearl buttons at the inside of her wrists.

“Is it so odd? Papa never dances when he attends events.”

Isolde nodded. “True, but I was under the impression that the path to affection began with dancing. That is what Miss Austen says.”

It made sense that perhaps he hadn’t been interested in dancing with anyone there.

Except he had danced with her. She could still see him in front of her, all shining dark eyes and warm smiles. She could still feel his hand on her waist, the way her heart thumped in her chest when he walked over to her, as they danced.

I’m taking you for this one.

Had he attended with the intention of dancing with her alone? It was a romantic idea, if entirely wishful. Or perhaps he had danced before she had arrived. He had said that he’d been there for hours before her. Was that a lie?

“He’s an enterprising young man. No doubt he had business to attend to,” Lord Melbroke replied. Elodia glanced at her father. His head was leaning against the seat rest, his eyes closed.

It was true enough. Any number of things could have called him away. Was it ridiculous to imagine that he had left because she was dancing with other men? Should she have stopped?

Any man would be lucky to be taken by you.

“Does he usually spend so little time at balls?” Isolde asked.

“No. He never stays until the end but he rarely leaves that early,” Elodia’s father responded. Then one blue eye opened. “Are you making a study of him, Miss Walsh?”

“No, my lord, he was merely one of the few people I recognized in the room. I hope he isn’t ill.”

What had he meant by their conversation, saying that any man would be happy to be claimed by her, even him? Was that an invitation or merely encouragement meant to bolster her spirits? Had he been signaling that he wanted her to claim him? So much could be twisted to mean one thing or another.

“Ellie?”

She turned her head to her father. “Yes, Papa?”

“Miss Walsh asked you a question.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She shook her head and turned to the woman beside her who was staring at her as if she were a strange type of bird.

Any man would be lucky…

“I only wanted to know if you’d enjoyed yourself, dear. You had quite a few partners.”

She smiled and gave what she was sure was an appropriate answer. “I did.”

“A glowing endorsement indeed,” Lord Melbroke teased her.

“I’m sorry, I am a little tired.” Her mind was going a thousand miles a minute, wondering if her time had finally come. If Richard had finally returned her feelings. Her heart began to race again.

I’ll have you for company.

“Of course you are,” Isolde said.

Elodia could barely meet their eyes. “I did enjoy myself. It’s a little strange getting used to attending events without Ada and Gigi,”

“I can imagine. I shall try to be a reasonable substitute.”

She gave her a quick glance. “You are wonderful. Without you, I’d have hidden in the cloak room.” That at least wasn’t a lie.

“Thank you very much for that,” her father said, shaking his head.

She needed to speak to Richard. She had to know what he’d meant.

Why had he singled her out for a dance and then left?

She needed an answer or she would go mad.

Ada was staying with him. Perhaps it was the universe helping her.

Now that Ada was married, Ellie had nearly given up all hope of giving him his pocket watch.

There was no way she could visit him without Ada.

She would go tomorrow. She would take it to him and offer it along with her heart and hope that her sincerity prompted him to do the same.

…you wouldn’t want to be claimed…

It depends on the woman.

*

He was tired. Not physically, not really.

Even after how many hours? His pocket watch was too far away to check.

He searched the room for a clock. Was that saying one o’clock?

Either way, he wasn’t physically exhausted.

He was sated… in a way, as if the feral energy inside him had been exorcised enough.

Sex was good exercise if done the correct way, and one thing he would say for Rachel was she knew the correct way.

But now there was something missing, like he had just discovered an itch he couldn’t quite get to.

Or champagne gone flat. The way good sex used to give him energy was, it seemed, a thing of the past. Or perhaps the sex wasn’t as good?

Eyes closed, he ran a brief inventory of his body.

No. His heart was pounding, his body covered in sweat, his toes were just a little numb. No, the sex wasn’t the issue.

“I’m so glad you decided against staying in the countryside, my dear.”

“Mmm.” Maybe he truly did want something more than the woman beside him. He’d taken up with her the year his parents died, when the grief and loneliness had proved to be too much to cope with alone. Now it seemed a different kind of loneliness had set in and time with her was only making it worse.

“Last year was so dreary without you, I had to take myself off to Italy.”

“I thought it was the dancing instructor,” he replied. She slapped his chest lazily from where she lay beside him.

“He was being far more obliging than you were. Not a word of English but—”

“But you got your point across.”

“Well, you know me.”

“I do.” She was a passionate woman, utterly fixated on pleasing herself.

Bold and beautiful and selfish enough to not care about the opinions of others.

No. No, that wasn’t quite it. She simply didn’t like being told what to do.

Again, after her marriage record, he couldn’t fault her for it, but a lack of accountability wasn’t something he wanted in a partner.

If she wanted a new necklace, she bought it.

If she wanted to spend two years in Italy, she did so.

And if she decided to fuck a twenty-year-old Chinese man off and on for over a decade, she did.

When all he’d wanted was to be touched by someone, she’d matched appetites well.

It was what had kept him here. But now he was tired of being touched by someone who didn’t care about him on even the most basic level, someone he was sure barely saw him as fully human.

A woman who only saw him as a novel addition to her collection of lovers.

He wanted to feel like he was part of something.

He wanted his own family and his own roots.

“You’re quiet this evening,” she commented, propping herself up on her elbow beside him, her pale sumptuous body bare over the sheets.

“Am I? How was your Italian conquest?” he asked.

“Lovely. But I don’t imagine I have the energy for the both of you. I’ll have to give him up now that you’ve decided to make an appearance.”

“You mean he’s here?” So she had brought him back to England? It was bold but not unlike her. No doubt she’d left him at her country house. Jesus, would it be that easy?

“For now.”

This was it. Better to cut it off now while she was still sexed up with other lovers on standby. There wouldn’t be a finer opportunity to end things on good terms. “Don’t give him up.”

“What?” she asked, chuckling.