‘I thought you preferred having Lillian in the country, so you can see her more often.’
‘I do enjoy her company, I must admit, but for her own sake she needs to mingle again in London next year, other wise she’ll not meet any eligible gentlemen. Lillian is special. Too loving to avoid marrying again and becoming a mother. Bringing out her sister is the perfect opportunity to slide into the social events without creating too much of a stir.’
‘Lillian’s reentry into the social whirl will cause a stir, no matter what happens here tonight.’
Michael grimaced. ‘That lowlife husband of hers did more than destroy his own life when he came off his horse. Racing through London’s foggy streets at three in the morning proved what we all knew. The bastard died through sheer stupid arrogance. But if that wasn’t enough to blacken the Armstrong name, someone started those preposterous rumors about Lillian goading him into the race.’
‘I know, I know. Armstrong was so full of his own self-importance that no-one, especially his wife, could have talked him out of that race.’ Brent ran his hands through his hair, forgetting that his valet had spent fifteen painful minutes combing his hair into the perfect style for a man about town. Personally, he couldn't give a damn about how he looked.
His normal style was casual and practical clothing, because his time was spent riding around his estate. Only if he was accompanying his daughter to visit neighbors would he don a coat and cravat, but for some reason his valet had decided that tonight he should look his best. No doubt one of his sisters had misconstrued his outing and instructed Henry to outfit him as a gentleman on the lookout for a wife. Laughable considering his first venture outside his estate was to a debauched ball, while he’d consistently told them he’d no intention of taking another wife, not yet anyway. His experience with marriage hadn’t been pleasant, and after his wife’s death he’d preferred to turn his attention to his young daughter, even if that meant becoming a recluse for the last four years.
So far, nothing and no one had changed his mind about a second marriage, despite hoping at some stage to give his precious daughter another mother. Margaret, the delight of his life, was better company than most adults, and the main reason he’d declined invitations to evening events around London, especially balls aimed at procuring a new mistress. Once his peers knew he was once again socializing, even if only at this lower level, word would spread that he was hunting for a bride. His peaceful Cornwall existence would be shattered by pushy matrons and unwilling chits. He shuddered.
Turning left, he eased into the crush around the edge of the ballroom, having pointed Michael in the other direction. If anyone knew his purpose, they’d certainly label him as a madman. Each time he passed a group of women, he slowed his steps and sniffed the air around them a couple of times, allowing their scent to fill his nostrils. So far, he hadn't detected any recognizable perfumes. Courtesans preferred heavier perfumes, scents that told prospective protectors that they were ready to negotiate the terms of a liaison, exchanging sexual favors for gifts of a house, servants, gowns, a carriage, and jewels.
Brenton passed another exaggeratedly-endowed marble statue, similar to the one behind which he and Michael had hidden. A stride or two beyond the six foot or more naked man, he stopped and sniffed. Inhaled again deeply. Orange, lemon, and a touch of bergamot, the aroma that always surrounded Lillian. A smell that reminded him of fresh air, sunshine, and simpler times. When they’d been children, they’d picked oranges straight from the trees on his estate, devouring them in the shade and later been berated by nurses and governesses when they’d returned home with stained clothing and sticky hands.