Page 6 of The Reclusive Earl’s Scandal (Vows and Vanity #1)

Rebecca had barely even reached for a glass to fill up at the punch bowl, planning to speak to the man already there, before he had whirled around, glass in hand.

She was too close, him too quick, and their collision sent the wine spilling on her dress, and Rebecca stared in shock. In fury , as she lifted her eyes to the man’s face, a scolding on her tongue—until she saw Edward Carmichael.

“Edward?” she asked, blinking, her eyes wide. “Edward Carmichael?”

The spill forgotten, and her anger quickly abated, Rebecca could only gape at him as he stared back at her in horror once he realized what he had done. And then recognition slowly broke through his panic.

“Rebecca!” he exclaimed. “Heavens, it is you, is it not? Rebecca Sterling? Although, I likely should call you Lady Rebecca.”

“And I ought to call you Lord Edward, yet here we are.”

“Lord Thornshire,” he corrected, his eyes dropping from hers before returning. Edward cleared his throat. “It is Lord Thornshire now. Well, as of almost two years ago.”

Rebecca stifled her gasp of embarrassment at forgetting the news that had flooded the ton. The Earl of Thornshire had passed away during a dinner party. The ton had been abuzz about it, horrified and shocked.

“Of course,” Rebecca said softly. “I am terribly sorry, Edward. I likely should have visited. My father and I should have reached out to you.”

Edward quickly shook his head, swallowing. “There was never any need. I confess I ended up retreating to Thornshire Hall anyway, so had you come knocking for me in London you would have only found my mother and sister.”

Rebecca laughed quietly, taking up a proper position next to him at the punch bowl, and then realization hit her. “Ah, here, you must let me pour you another drink.”

“There is no need,” he told her. She noticed how his eyes kept flitting around, his gaze never truly fixing in one place. His hands twitched on the now-empty glass, the other clenching at his side. Perhaps it was just the worry of ruining her dress, but he seemed awfully distressed.

The wine extended across the front of Rebecca’s gown, a most becoming shade of rose-gold, and she endeavoured to convince herself that the stain would merely serve as a conversation piece with the gentlemen she was to be introduced to.

Perhaps it might serve as a topic of mild amusement, a harmless incident to spark a friendly exchange.

Rebecca began fixing Edward a drink regardless of his protests, as well as one for herself. “A toast, perhaps?” she asked. “To old childhood friends.”

Edward gave her a nervous laugh, again doing that thing where he barely looked at her, and nodded. He clicked his glass against hers, before drinking deeply. Rebecca gazed out at the ballroom.

“I can hardly believe it,” she said. “Of course, we would have been bound to see one another at some point, but… it has been a long time. That time of our lives seems a whole world away.”

Edward nodded. “Our fathers reminiscing about their schooling days over a glass of brandy in the study,” he laughed. “And us, bundled together in the nursery. I will wager that back then our mothers thought we would grow up closer.”

“It is a shame we did not,” she pointed out. “I do not really recall what happened.”

“I do not think anything did particularly,” he told her. “But I am glad to be seeing you now.” Edward turned a blue-eyed gaze on her, and Rebecca took the momentary eye contact he appeared brave enough to make to properly study him.

Dark lashes framed his eyes in a charming, handsome way, and although his smile was nervous it lingered in a way that had her stomach swooping a little.

Waves of almost black hair curled to his shirt collar, contrasting the deep, forest-green cravat.

He had grown, of course, since they were children.

He had always been tall, but now he towered over her at least an easy half-foot, and although he wasn’t as broad as other lords tended to be, those with penchants for fencing and boxing, he appeared broad enough beneath his tailcoat.

Light freckles dotted beneath his eyes, and she wondered at him admitting his retreat into the countryside. Edward appeared to study her right back, and Rebecca turned her face away, wondering what he saw. Worrying over what he might actually see.

Her father’s debts still grew, and another letter of warning had arrived a day ago, granting Rebecca a sleepless night.

But that had only heightened her determination to find success tonight.

She needed to keep making her rounds, hint to another suitor that she wished to dance with him, yet she lingered at the punch bowl with Edward.

For a moment, she didn’t think about her family’s precarious situation, or her future. This was a man who had known her before life had forced Rebecca to grow up, to be the eldest and learn the responsibility that came with that.

She smiled at Edward, sipping her wine. “I am happy to see you, too.”

Another moment passed, neither of them sure how to navigate the years between them.

They spoke at the same time, then.

“How are you finding the first ball of the Season?” Edward asked right as Rebecca enquired, “how long has it been?”

The two blinked at one another, and Rebecca blushed, looking away.

“Forgive me,” she said. “To answer your question, first, though, I am finding it rather trying. There have been several balls before this official one, of course, but...” She sighed exasperatedly.

“They have been awful, and the men even worse.”

“I can imagine,” he muttered, sipping deeply—deep enough for a refill, which he turned to do, and Rebecca clutched her glass and gathered her thoughts.

She had to be careful with how she spoke of the balls, especially if Edward was an earl now.

Who knew what connections he had? “What about…” He gestured out, his grip on his glass looser.

“Lord Willoughby. He is rather good, no? We are friends. Or, were. Perhaps we still are, I do not really know.”

“He is nice enough, but we did not really make any sort of notable conversation when we were introduced earlier.” Her nose wrinkled as she thought deeply.

“Lord Grant?”

“With the way he boasts just about everything? Heavens, no. I would no doubt eat breakfast as his wife only to hear that he likely paid a thousand men to farm the very wheat that made the bread! There cannot possibly be a thing he does not pay for.”

Edward gave her a less nervous smile than earlier. “I see.” He narrowed his gaze on the ballroom, and Rebecca followed his focus, seeing his mother. She would be the dowager countess now. Her sharp eyes watched the ballroom, as Edward’s did, but as soon as she saw him, her eyes narrowed further.

“She appears watchful,” Rebecca noted carefully.

“She is,” he sighed. “She came to retrieve me from Thornshire Hall for this very ball, insistent I reenter society. I did not really want to come tonight. But as the earl now, I must do my duty. I must do as I am advised. Continue the family name, provide heirs, make my mother proud enough that she will leave me alone.”

“Yes, and if memory serves me right, if a book could provide you an heir that is what you would marry,” Rebecca jested, the memory of Edward sneaking off to the Bancroft Manor’s library rising without her realizing she reached for such recollection.

Her face burned immediately at the thought of her jest, as did Edward’s, and their eyes found one another for a brief moment.

He looked at her as though he didn’t quite understand, his expression frozen but not panicked, or stricken, as it had been earlier. She waited for him to say something else but he didn’t. Not for several moments.

Instead, his eyes fell to the wine stain on her gown, and Rebecca swore she saw Edward cringe.

“I am truly sorry, Rebecca,” he stressed. “You must allow me to pay for any damage or permanent staining. The silk… it could rip, or weaken. In fact, let me replace the whole...”

Rebecca waved it off. “Please do not worry yourself. It is old, anyway.”

Her heart ached at the thought of her gown order for the Season being rejected because her father had not paid the account off.

She had gone there herself very quietly, offering the modiste a necklace she had received from her father as a debut gift.

Half of the order had been paid, but the dresses could not be released until the full payment was accounted for.

With a heavy heart, Rebecca had chosen one of her earliest gowns from her debut Season, hoping nobody recognized it.

“Old?” Edward asked. He lifted a brow. “Forgive me but is it not customary for ladies to be equipped with new gowns ahead of the Season? I am certain that is so, for I received the account ledger for my mother’s dresses, as well as a few new gowns for my sister.”

I should not have made such a foolish comment , she thought, thinking quickly.

“It is customary, indeed,” she answered.

“But… but Amelia, the next eldest after me, had been looking at this earlier. She said there is a tale that says if one reuses a gown from a prosperous time then they have double the luck.”

Edward stared back at her, and she felt her heart pound with the thin story. But she turned away, ignoring the searching gaze.

“Nevertheless,” he said, mercifully dropping the subject, “if you will not let me pay for a replacement then you must allow me to make such a clumsy mistake up to you another way.”

Rebecca only flashed him a suggestive smile, looking at him over the rim of her wine glass.

“You may save me a dance at the next ball.” And with that, she pushed away from the table, her glass empty, and her teasing lingering in the air.

She sauntered away, immediately finding herself a young gentleman standing alone.