And Then She Fell(14)
Sauntering along shoulder to shoulder with Simon, James let his gaze roam while inwardly weighing his options. He understood, or at least he thought he did, what Henrietta’s view of him currently must be. Was there any way he could rescript that view and get her to see him in a better light?
A light sufficiently flattering that she might entertain an offer from him to fill the position he had vacant?
At least she already knew all the details, and as she was a Cynster, he could trust that she would be reasonable and amenable to rational persuasion, but . . . the not-so-small hurdle of falling in love remained.
No more than the next man did he have any idea how one accomplished that—how one fell in love—but given it was Henrietta who, even among the competing claims of the hordes of young ladies along the Avenue, had remained the unwavering focus of his attention, he was increasingly inclined, admittedly recklessly, to give love a try.
Who knew? It might suit him.
It might get him where he wanted to go, might gain him what he most truly wanted of life but had thought—given his grandaunt’s will—that he no longer had any hope of attaining.
For all he knew, the possibility might be there.
If only he could fathom how to make her look at him—truly look at him and see him for what he was—and then fall in love with him . . .
Who was he deceiving now? She wouldn’t fall in love with him, not spontaneously, not unless he made an obvious push to gain her regard, but in doing that, in making such a push, he would risk losing her help with his quest, his search for his necessary bride.
Simon glanced at him. “So how do you feel about this latest tack?”
“Stymied.” He didn’t meet Simon’s eyes.
Charlie clapped him on the shoulder. “Never mind—it’ll all work out. You’ll see.”
James hoped so, because, regardless of all else, he had the futures of a small army to ensure.
Chapter Three
Lady Marchmain’s rout was one of the traditional highlights of the Season. That said, it wasn’t an event patronized by the very young ladies only just out, but rather by those no longer caught up in the first flush of the Marriage Mart. Among the sea of well-coiffed heads gleaming beneath the crystal chandeliers, in between the black-clad shoulders of fashionable gentlemen in evening attire and the stunning gowns in more intense hues worn by dashing matrons and more mature ladies, could be glimpsed the definite-yet-still-pastel-colored creations favored by young ladies with several Seasons under their belts but as yet no offer for their hands.
“Just as I thought.” Clad in blue silk in a shade deeper than her eyes, Henrietta tipped her head toward the melee, then leaned closer to James, standing alongside her, the better to be heard over the din created by hundreds of wagging tongues. “We’re sure to find several good candidates in this crowd.”
James eyed the shifting throng with a jaundiced eye. “The trick will be winkling them out from the herd.”
“Never fear.” Eyes sparkling, Henrietta grinned, transparently in her element. “Trust me—it won’t be that difficult.”
They were standing by one side of the massive ballroom, with a wall of long windows at their backs. Beyond the windows lay a wide lawn rolling down to a stream; the darkening shadows of extensive gardens stretched into the distance beyond.
Marchmain House stood outside London proper, at a bend along the river near Chiswick. James had arrived reasonably early, wanting to be there when Henrietta walked in. He’d assumed she would be attending with her mother and sister, but instead she’d appeared at the top of the steps leading down into the ballroom alone; a slender figure in the blue silk gown that echoed the soft shade of her eyes, a gold-spangled shawl draped over her elbows, she’d instantly commanded his attention. He’d watched her greet Lady Marchmain, a motherly lady of the grande dame variety, with open affection, then move on to peck Lord Marchmain’s cheek before, with a laugh, descending to the ballroom.
James had been waiting for her by the bottom step.
The smile she’d bestowed on him when her gaze had alighted on him—the quick glance she’d sent skating over him and the approval that had flared in her eyes—had left him feeling a tad off-balance. Knocked askew. How he was supposed to command his unruly senses to focus on any other young lady was beyond his comprehension.
But . . . “There’s Miss Alcock.” Henrietta shifted closer still to point out a young lady in an apple green gown. “We should definitely consider her. And . . .” She wove away, then back, peering past the shoulders, simultaneously playing havoc with James’s distracted senses; her perfume, a subtle blend of citrus and rose, wreathed his brain and trapped his wits. “Yes, that’s Miss Ellingham over there—I had hoped she would be here.”