Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(38)

Only her fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.

One more deep breath, then she lengthened her neck, dropped her shoulders, and swept in.

It was one thing to be afraid. It was another to show fear.

That had been one of her mother’s lessons.

Besides, there was nothing to fear.

She knew almost everybody here—not well, it was true, but well enough to know there were no dragons hiding in the corners, despite how some of the dowagers might imagine themselves. A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth at the thought.

She pushed the smile farther. It was hard to be frightened when smiling.

And why was she scared of a husband anyway? John had been wonderful and caring and … Perhaps she was afraid that no other man could measure up, that no other man could—

“It is lovely to see you, Louisa.” Lady Hamilton, her hostess, held out a gloved hand. “It has been far too long since you have moved among us. I had begun to fear you would never leave the—”

Louisa leaned in to give Lady Hamilton a light kiss upon the cheek, their skin never actually touching. Long ago, before her marriage to John, the two women had come close to being true friends, only circumstance and time holding them apart. “It is good to be here,” she answered simply, holding back the explanations that rose to her lips. They would only have added complication to a situation that did not need any more of them. It was enough that she was here.

“I am so pleased that you have put aside your grays and purples. I know that Brookingston was a dear husband, but a woman should not mourn for too long. It is unbecoming.” Lady Hamilton leaned closer and added in a whisper, “And you don’t want to miss your chances. Men do like youth, and I am afraid we are close to losing our bloom. As it is, it is a good thing that you are not wanting of funds. A man can overlook a lot for some ready capital.”

Louisa blinked. When had Lady Hamilton changed from a youthful friend to an interfering matron? It was true they had been close, but never to the extent that invited such shared confidences. She forced her smile slightly higher and nodded. There were definitely moments when no answer was the best answer.

She gave a nod of greeting to Lord Hamilton and, avoiding further conversation, she drifted into the ballroom.



Why was he here? Swanston let his gaze wander over the milling crowd. Soirees were the common place to choose a bride, but he’d never understood why. What could one determine in such a crush besides what a woman looked like in an evening gown—he’d never thought that was an important factor in deciding suitability anyway, and with the fuller skirts drifting into fashion it mattered even less. True, he wouldn’t want a woman who looked like a rum-soaked prune—Lady Willis, standing there in the corner dressed in a dreadful brown satin—or one who looked like a pineapple—Miss Strong, whose mother clearly needed to teach her some restraint in the matter of bows. In fact, he supposed a man didn’t really want his wife to look like any type of fruit unless there was some nudity involved that evoked images of peaches and cream, or perhaps strawberries.

And that consideration was not vital in choosing a wife either.

For a wife a man wanted grace and calm, qualities that weren’t easy to determine in the midst of a crowd.

And that’s what this ball was: a crowd.

Still, he was here and he would fulfill his commitments to his hosts—and to his estates.

This might not be a good way to find a bride, but he’d never heard of a better one.

Letting his shoulders relax and allowing his face a pleasant demeanor, he strode forth. If nothing else, he could determine which of the young chits bored him within the length of a dance.

While it might not be necessary to find his wife entertaining, neither did he wish to find her tedious. A lifetime of breakfasts and dinners awaited and he had no wish to spend them wishing he were someplace else.

He let his eyes wander over the crowd again. Perhaps a pineapple wouldn’t be so bad. The girl was not unpleasant looking, and surely a husband could command his wife’s dress sense. And those were handsome diamonds about her neck—and not old family pieces, if he was any judge. There was new money there, as well as old.

She might just suit his needs. She was quite young, but young meant malleable.



It was him. Louisa’s breath caught in her throat and she stopped dead in her tracks, almost stumbling over another lady’s hems.

It was him.

Tall. Wide shoulders. Dark, curling hair.

It was him.

And then he moved—and it was not.

Or at least, she didn’t think so.

How many times over the past month had she had the same thought, the same loss of breath, the same light-headedness? Once a day? Twice?

And it was never him. Or at least she didn’t think so.

It was time to admit that she could probably stand next him and not know.

No matter how familiar a man might seem, there would never be a way to be sure. And it certainly wasn’t something she could ask.

And besides, she trusted Madame. Madame would not have put her with a man she would meet in her path through society, would she?

No.

It was only some tiny hopeful spark that made her imagine every man she met was him, was her Charles. And she knew she must douse that spark with a downpour of common sense. She did not want to meet him again. She did not. Her life was much better without him. She had refused to meet him again, and it had been the right thing, the only thing.