Page 10

Trevor had deliberately positioned himself on the left side of the ballroom with a clear view of the grand staircase. Though he tried hard not to make it very obvious, his eyes were constantly drawn to the staircase as each guest was announced.

The marquess had arrived at the ball unfashionably early, hoping his father would do the same. He had sent word to the duke this morning, informing his father he would be in attendance at Lady Dermond’s ball. There had been no reply to the message, but Trevor had not expected any.

He still could not say for certain whether a moment of madness or guilt had brought him here this evening. Although he was at a loss to explain his motives, Trevor acknowledged he was now committed to the endeavor and must see it through.

“... and that is when I told the fellow he was all wet,” the Earl of Kendale declared loudly.

There were titters from the ladies and bellows of laughter from the gentlemen who stood within the circle of conversation. Trevor turned his head away from the milling scene in the ballroom and attempted to look interested in the discussion.

There had been many surprised looks sent his way when he first entered the room. He had ignored them and intentionally joined a small group of males and females brought together by a single bond—their love of gossip.

Trevor reasoned his unexpected appearance would make him the natural topic of whispers and speculations. And so it had. Yet by ingratiating himself within the group that thrived on it, he had managed to shift some of the attention away from himself.

This select group might be a rude, stuffy, and possessing an inflated opinion of their importance, but there was not one among them, male or female, who possessed the courage to repeat any unsavory speculation about the marquess while he was standing in front of them.

“The earl can be most tedious at times,” the woman at Trevor’s side remarked as she leaned into him. “But he does tell the most amusing tales.”

She spoke in a flirtatious whisper that Trevor found oddly annoying. Though accustomed to female attention, this young matron surprised him with her boldness, for her husband stood directly across from them.

For a brief second he debated walking away, but then realized he would just be forced to join another equally annoying group of individuals.

He blew out a breath and wished he was holding a tall glass filled with whiskey.

It was a humbling and not altogether pleasant realization to admit how much he felt the need for a drink.

He had limited himself to a half bottle of wine with his dinner and had downed only one glass of whiskey since his arrival.

Clearly that was not a sufficient amount of alcohol to sustain him through the evening.

An elderly couple emerged from the crowd and strode toward him.

“Dardington? Is that you?” the gentleman called out in amazement.

Trevor smiled faintly in greeting. He recognized their faces, but could not for the life of him recall their names. Yet their timing could not have been more fortuitous. The flirtatious matron by his side whispered something vulgar under her breath and quickly took her leave.

“Good evening,” he said pleasantly, presenting a polite bow to his rescuers.

They chatted briefly, then left to greet other friends. Trevor felt a slight flush of embarrassment as they left, for he was still unable to recall precisely who they were.

Yet he was pleased to finally be alone. Restlessly the marquess observed the preening young ladies, blustering men, and scheming mamas who stood amongst the crowd, and concluded once again what he really needed was a large glass of strong spirits to deaden his brain.

Alas, that would not be possible until after he left the ball.

Trevor was resolved to be on his best behavior this evening.

He would ignore the smug smile that was certain to be on his father’s face when he greeted him, be charmingly polite to the woman the duke insisted he should meet, ask her to dance once and only once, and when that arduous duty was completed he would take his leave. Immediately.

Thus he would fulfill his familial obligations and perhaps avoid his father’s censure for a few weeks. Or maybe even months.

But where the devil was his father? He could hardly perform this act of generosity if the duke did not make an appearance soon. With the woman he hoped to marry off to his son.

Frustrated, Trevor again glanced at the main staircase.

He saw a tall, curvaceous woman dressed in blue avoid being announced by cleverly stepping behind the majordomo and gliding down the stairs.

Her reason for anonymity intrigued him, yet her breathtaking beauty kept his eyes upon her as she attempted to melt into the crowd.

Her pale lustrous skin glowed in the candlelight, her simple unadorned gown showcased full breasts and a lovely neck. She was taller than most of the women and many of the men in the room, so it took little effort to follow her progress, even though she kept to the edges of the ballroom.

Something about her seemed oddly familiar, but at this distance Trevor could not be certain he knew her. She seemed more like a dream conjured up from his adolescence, an ethereal beauty who was the very picture of grace, elegance, and raw sensuality.

“I heard a rumor you were here, but needed to see the proof of it with my own eyes before I could believe it to be true.”

Trevor turned to find one of his former lovers, Lady Ann Tower, standing beside him. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, Ann was pretty and intelligent, a widow who enjoyed her independence. Their affair had been brief and torrid, and she was one of a select few Trevor chose to remember with affection.

But not at this moment. His eyes and mind had been captivated by the blond beauty.

Fortunately Lady Ann was intelligent enough to realize that Trevor had other, more pressing matters on his mind.

After exchanging polite greetings, she made no further attempt to invade his privacy and merely smiled at the distracted farewell the marquess bestowed upon her when she left.

Frustrated, Trevor once again searched the crowd for the blond beauty. He felt a surprising amount of regret when he could not find her, but she seemed to have vanished.

He turned to lift a glass of champagne from the silver tray of a passing servant and then, miraculously, unexpectedly, she stood before him.

His breath caught. Odd that lately he felt indifferent to the charms of so many females, and yet the sight of this particular woman could affect him so completely.

She nodded regally in his direction, then dipped a low, graceful curtsy. As she regained her feet, her blue eyes flashed, and he suddenly recognized her. His back went stiff with shock. With painful clarity he recalled precisely who she was and exactly how he had come to know her.

Trevor’s need for a tall glass of whiskey increased tenfold.

Steadfastly ignoring the flitter of nerves in her stomach, Meredith approached the marquess. Her progress across the room drew little attention among the crowd, though several male heads turned as she glided gracefully past them.

He was not looking in her direction when she approached. For a moment she wasn’t certain how to best gain his attention. Meredith was about to loudly clear her throat when she realized her knees were shaking.

Good heavens, she had not felt this nervous when she had been presented at court.

As she struggled to control the knocking of her knees, the marquess lifted a glass of champagne from a passing servant, then turned toward her. His initial gaze of curiosity and delight turned to puzzlement, and then utter surprise.

“Meredith,” he whispered.

“Good evening, my ... my lord.”

Meredith wished she had the nerve to address him as Trevor, but it seemed far too presumptuous despite all they had shared in the past.

Though the years had wrought changes, he was still a commanding man.

Handsome seemed too mild a word to describe his looks.

He was like some golden god, spun from brilliant sunlight, created by magnificent sorcery.

Yet for all the beauty in his face and form, it was his eyes that spoke to her.

Despite his youth, they were old. Old and filled with a weariness buried within their depths she had never seen.

“Champagne?” he asked, lifting a second glass from a servant who stood silently near.

Though her mouth was dry, Meredith refused the drink.

The marquess shrugged his broad shoulders.

Instead of returning the untouched flute of bubbling wine, he lifted it to his lips, tilted his head back, and emptied it in one long swallow.

He quickly repeated the gesture with the goblet he held in his other hand.

Meredith glanced at the silver tray the footman held. Among the empty glasses were three crystal flutes filled to the brim. The marquess placed his goblets on the tray. His hand moved fractionally toward one of the filled flutes, then hesitated.

As if sensing her intense regard, his head turned toward her.

Their eyes met. She lifted her brow fractionally, almost daring him to pick up another glass. A ghost of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“No words of disapproval?” he asked in a daring tone.

“ ’Tis hardly my place,” she replied demurely.

“That rarely stops a female from commenting with a scowl of her brow and a click of her tongue.”

Meredith smiled. “I am not like other women, my lord.”

“I remember.”

She blinked at him, suddenly uncertain. For a brief second, there had been a glimpse of the man she had known, carefree, fun-loving, mischievous. The man Lavinia had loved so completely.

It hurt to remember. Meredith expected it would feel strange to see him again, but she had not known how hard it would be.

“It has been a long time,” he said, forsaking a third goblet of champagne.