Harry rejoined the party, he immediately located the girl. He’d wondered whether to blame the moonlight for his enchantment. Now that he saw her clearly, she still took his breath away. Candlelight revealed details that he’d missed. The precise shade of her gold hair. The creamy skin. The pink flush on her cheeks.
A pink flush that heightened when she cast one nervous glance to where he stood near the doors.
Satisfaction that she’d sought him out flooded him. His eyes followed her as she twirled around the room, graceful as a flying bird in her white dress. She was dancing with the Marquess of Leath. Could his rival be James Fairbrother? The man was filthy rich and from a powerful family.
Across the crowded room, Lady Vera scowled at him as if she’d like to skin him alive. He shrugged and sent her a regretful smile. How could he explain that after a chance meeting, he was no longer the same man?
“Who is that pretty girl with Leath?” he asked with studied nonchalance when his friend Beswick sidled up.
Beswick took a few moments to locate her. The man must be blind. She outshone every woman here the way the sun outshone the moon. “The blonde?”
The goddess. “Yes.”
“That’s Sophie Fairbrother.” Beswick regarded him in disbelief. “That’s setting your sights too high for a penniless younger son with no prospects, chum. She’s Leath’s sister. Word is that she’s promised to Desborough, although nothing official’s been announced.”
Another punch in the guts. Was that why his beauty had been crying? Her family forced her into an unwanted match? “Earl Desborough?”
Beswick laughed derisively. “Is there another? He and Leath are political pals and this will unite the two great fortunes. The chit comes with a fat dowry. Surprised you haven’t heard talk of her.”
“Does she love Desborough?” Harry asked, then cursed himself for the betraying question.
Another scoffing laugh from Beswick. “Who cares when she brings all that gold? Good God, I’d make a play for her myself if Leath didn’t know that my pockets are to let. Wish he’d forget about fortune hunters and concentrate on his spat with Sedgemoor.”
Without shifting his attention from Sophie Fairbrother, Harry asked, “What spat?”
“Have you been living under a rock?”
Harry cast his friend a look of cordial dislike. “No, just attending Peter’s funeral and helping Elias settle into his role as the new Lord Wilmott.”
Dismay filled Beswick’s good-natured face. “Beg pardon, old man. I forgot. Blame it on my frustration at seeing such a fat pigeon fly to someone who already has a full dovecote.”
Reluctantly Harry smiled. Beswick’s financial woes were long-standing. “Buck up, Beswick. It’s always darkest before the dawn.”
“Especially if you can’t afford candles,” his friend replied glumly. “You must have heard about Richard Harmsworth and Sedgemoor exposing Neville Fairbrother, Leath’s uncle, as a thief? Fairbrother shot himself before charges were laid, but the investigation has filled the papers. Jonas Merrick gathered most of the evidence—as you’d expect with his contacts. That man knows before a mouse farts in the wainscoting, I vow.”
Perhaps Harry had been living under a rock. “The uncle’s doings have tainted all the Fairbrothers?”
“Pretty much. The word is that Leath hopes this spectacular marriage will restore the family prestige.”
“So she’s a sacrificial lamb.” Poor Sophie. The dance finished and her brother returned her to a group of grandees including, he noticed, Desborough.
“Sacrificial virgin, more like.” Beswick’s voice lowered. “Desborough’s a lucky dog. Brass doesn’t usually come in such an appealing package.”
“Watch your mouth, Beswick,” Harry snarled.
Even without looking, Harry knew his friend regarded him like he was going mad. The way he felt, perhaps his friend was right. “Steady on, man. She’s a pretty girl who’s completely out of reach. We’ve admired plenty of those in our time.”
The Thornes were inclined to sudden, but lasting passions. Sophie Fairbrother had no idea what she’d sparked tonight. As if she sensed his thoughts, Sophie looked up sharply and immediately found him. Even across the room, he saw the hectic color in her alabaster cheeks. Dear Lord, she was a peach.
Harry held her eyes. He meant to make her his. Let the rest of the world go hang.
Val d’Aosta, February 1828
Very carefully, Pen inched open the door from her chamber on the upper floor. Despite exhaustion, roiling turmoil had stopped her sleeping. Grief for Peter. Anger that he hadn’t confided in her about his illness. Resentment at Cam’s arrogance. Impatience with herself for finding Cam as compelling as ever, even when she burned to crown him with the nearest stewpot.
Just seeing Cam confirmed that agonizing truth. She hated to admit that she was still that most pathetic creature, the lovelorn female yearning after a man who would never love her back.
Since refusing his proposal, she’d done her damnedest to forget Camden Rothermere. Her aunt had led an active and interesting life, mixing with people who found English manners too restrictive. In the past nine years, Pen had met poets and painters and musicians, wandering aristocrats and antiquarians, travelers and scientists.
She’d learned that her idiosyncratic character, too individual to meet approval at home, appealed to those who appreciated intelligence and spirit. Her broken heart had found some small solace in the admiration of brilliant, sophisticated men. Cam didn’t want her, but that didn’t mean she was undesirable.
Occasionally she’d wondered if someone might usurp Cam’s place in her affections. But to her despair, she was a true Thorne. She loved once and she loved deeply.
Which meant she couldn’t bear to spend the next weeks cooped up with Cam. Last night, she’d told Giuseppe and Maria to be waiting at five, whatever the weather. Luckily, the storm had died overnight and when she checked out her narrow bedroom window, the road from the village looked passable. Even if it wasn’t, she’d damn well walk rather than suffer Cam’s company all the way back to England.
Now that Peter wouldn’t meet her in Paris—she stifled a pang, she’d grieve once she was out of this pickle—she’d go south as Cam suggested. Then she’d make her way to London.
The corridor outside her room was black as a cave in Hades. She edged forward. Once she made it downstairs and outside to the stables, she was on her way.
“Going somewhere?”
She jumped and dropped her bag to the wooden floor. Gasping, she whirled toward the shadows near the door. “You scared me.”
“Not enough, apparently,” Cam
