‘It’s fascinating,’ Lizzy continued, ‘that when Lyonsdale chose to waltz it was with an American. That’s rather...humbling.’ Lizzy eyed Helena over her fan. ‘I’ve not witnessed you and Lyonsdale conversing tonight.’
An unwelcome flush crept up Helena’s neck and she forced herself to appear relaxed. Was it possible that he had ended their affair because of a provincial colonial? What did it say about her that he had replaced her with an American? She stole a glance at the men and women standing around them. Were they discussing it behind their fans and casting judgement?
‘Surely you haven’t been watching him all evening,’ she said to Lizzy, pushing her nails further into her gloved fist.
She needed to ensure no attachment was forming between Lyonsdale and the American woman before she found herself the subject of gossip in the papers for her smug brother to gloat over.
For a ball consisting of weak beverages and a poor choice in musicians, Katrina found there was quite a crush. Apparently the Whitfield name meant something to the ton. She excused herself from Sarah and Mrs Forrester to find a bit of a reprieve in the ladies’ retiring room. When she crossed the threshold, she was relieved to find the delicate gilded chairs were empty and the sole occupant was a maid, who remained by the door.
Walking towards a wall hung with mirrors, Katrina peered at her reflection. She had a rosy glow, which sadly was the result of heat and not from the joy of dancing with her various partners. They hadn’t exactly been horrible partners. They just weren’t Julian. If she had been dancing with him her glow might have been from an amusing conversation—or from the way her body seemed to catch fire whenever he was near.
She missed him. She assumed he was keeping his distance so as not to cause speculation. It was an honourable action, but she didn’t have to like it. How she wished he would ask her to dance. Then she could listen to that amusing deep voice that warmed her like a cup of chocolate.
Katrina was so absorbed in her thoughts that she almost didn’t notice a woman in a Pomona-green silk gown walk up beside her. She was stunning, with perfect delicate features and a thick head of dark hair. The woman studied her own reflection and adjusted the curls near her temples before shifting her grey eyes to Katrina.
‘Aren’t you that American woman?’
Would there be one ball, one fête she would attend where she wouldn’t have to face at least one ignorant comment about Americans?
Katrina held back a sigh, anticipating one of those conversations. ‘There are a few Americans in London. Which one do you believe me to be?’
‘The author’s daughter,’ the woman replied, raising her chin.
‘By author, do you mean Peter Vandenberg? If so, I am indeed his daughter.’
The woman eyed Katrina critically, from her slippers to her hair. Did she not realise Katrina could see her?
‘And who might you be?’ Katrina asked.
‘Oh, I am Lady Wentworth. I am a very dear friend of the Duke of Lyonsdale. I understand you danced with him recently at Almack’s?’
That statement had not been uttered by chance. Katrina’s muscles tightened like a bowstring. ‘His Grace and I did share a dance.’
‘He is a handsome man, is he not?’
‘I suppose.’
If one liked men who had wavy dark hair, moss-green eyes, chiselled features, and cut a fine form.
Lady Wentworth let out a soft, disgustingly lovely laugh. ‘Surely you agree? It’s a pity you’re American, and therefore could never become his duchess. I can assure you whoever he does marry will be quite fortunate.’
Her lips rose in a sly smile. She leaned close to Katrina’s ear, and her hot breath scorched her neck.
‘He knows how to do delicious things to make a woman quiver with need.’
She stepped back, looked Katrina directly in the eye, and cocked an arrogant brow. Katrina’s stomach rolled and pitched. She would not give this horrid woman the satisfaction of knowing how her words had filled Katrina with a sense of betrayal. Could this be why Julian had not called on her?
After weeks of pretending that English aristocrats didn’t bore her to sleep, Katrina had become quite adept at hiding her emotions. She smiled sweetly back at the witch beside her. ‘One would imagine that since he is neither married nor publicly displaying a mistress he has yet to find a woman who makes him feel the same in return.’
There—that felt better.
Katrina forced her lips into the brightest smile. ‘Do enjoy your evening, Lady Wentworth.’
As if she didn’t have a care in the world, Katrina turned and breezed out of the room. Unfortunately the reality was that her world had just become a colder place. She would only be in London for a few months. It shouldn’t matter to her that this woman was sharing Julian’s bed—but it did.
She needed time away from the ballroom and the sight of Lady Wentworth.
Earlier in the evening she had a pleasant conversation with the Duchess of Winterbourne, who had mentioned there were some lovely landscapes hung along this long, deserted hallway. Now was the perfect time to view them.
The sound of confident footfalls had Katrina praying that the pompous Mr Armstrong had not found her. Turning her head, she was startled when Julian took her arm and tugged her through one of the open doorways into an oak-panelled room.
The sight of three large stuffed birds glaring at her in the moonlight from the round table beside them made her jump, and it took her a moment before she shifted her attention to the man standing a few feet in front of her. Lady Wentworth’s comment echoed in her mind, and it occurred to her that all Julian had to do was look at her to make her insides quiver. She had to remind herself he was not the man for her.
‘Are you trying to ruin me?’ she demanded, placing her hands on her hips. ‘What possessed you to drag me in here?’
He stepped closer, creating a cushion of heat between them. No man deserved to look that good in unremarkable formal black evening clothes.
‘Of course I’m not trying to ruin you. My committee meetings have been consuming my days. I wanted you to know I have not forgotten about our promise.’
Once more she heard Lady Wentworth’s voice.
‘Please do not feel obligated to continue to read with me. You’re a very busy man, and I’m certain you’d prefer to read the remainder of the book at your leisure.’
He lowered his gaze towards his shiny black dress shoes. ‘On the contrary, I would rather read it with you.’ As he looked back up at her through his thick lashes a look of confusion crossed his face. ‘Do you no longer wish to read with me?’
He was not courting her. She had no claim on him. How could she tell him how she felt without sounding jealous?
