She shrugged again. “A little.”
He sighed and turned his attention back to the brighter part of the terrace and the ballroom that lit it. “Perhaps I skulked a little. It was too hot inside and too…immediate.”
He drew back at the words that came from his own lips. He had not meant to say them. Hell, he had hardly ever allowed himself to think them.
“Too immediate,” she repeated softly, and the smile faded from her lips. “I think I understand what you mean. Expectation hangs in the air.”
He nodded. “It does.”
They stood silently for a beat, she staring up at him, he unable to take his eyes from her. It was strange, because the silence felt both charged with heat but somehow comfortable, as if she expected no empty chatter.
He shook his head, trying to clear it of the odd thoughts. “Well, er, that very expectation dictates that I return to the ball. And that will leave you to return to your counting, though I must imagine you’ve lost your place thanks to me.”
She laughed again, music in the wind and pointed upward. “Not at all. I left off right there.”
He chuckled. “Very good. Perhaps I will see you inside then.”
She nodded. “Good evening.”
He inclined his head and slowly turned to make his way back to the terrace doors that led into the ballroom. It was only as he reached them that he realized he had never gotten the young woman’s name. Not that it really mattered. He knew who she was.
And after talking to her, suddenly the future felt a little less awful.
Helena Monroe watched as the gentleman entered the ballroom and shut the door behind him. It was only when he had left the terrace that she rediscovered the ability to draw a full breath. She spun back toward the veranda wall, gripping it tightly as she thought of the intruder.
By God, but he was well favored. He was the kind of man whose age was hard to determine, thanks to the seriousness with which he held himself, but she doubted he was above thirty years. He had thick brown hair, the kind a woman wanted to run her fingers through, and soulful, almost sorrowful brown eyes. When she had first looked at him, he had been very somber, but the moment she coaxed a laugh from him, he had changed.
She had been in England for several weeks and had the opportunity to meet a handful of men. None had been at all interesting to her. Not that it mattered, of course, but still. When a man swept in like the one on the terrace had and took one’s breath away…
Well, that was a momentous occasion. She found herself wondering who he was. She supposed she could find out easily enough if she asked after—
She lifted her hands to her mouth. She had never asked his name or given him her own. “He must think you an idiot,” she said as she shook her head and looked down over the garden. “And you probably talked too much.”
“As you are wont to do, Helena!”
She flinched at the sharp tone of her uncle’s voice behind her. She turned toward him, putting as good a face on as she could muster when he was standing there, arms folded, glaring at her. It seemed the only expression he could manage lately.
“Hello, Uncle Peter,” she said softly. “I was just getting some air.”
He snorted out a nasty sound and arched a brow. “Well, you’ve had enough air. Go inside. You are here for your cousin, not to indulge yourself in your own foolishness. A lady’s companion must stay with her charge.”
Helena dipped her head. It was very difficult for her not to retort in the face of such sullen cruelty, but she knew what would happen if she did. Since she had been conscripted into the duty of companion to her cousin Charity, she had felt the back of her uncle’s hand more than once.
So she swallowed back her saucy retort and nodded. “Of course, Uncle. I shall go back in at once.”
He pointed toward the ballroom doors, as if she would not be able to find them on her own, and waited as she marched her way back to them. Back to the room that was too hot and too loud. Back to the cousin who treated her like a servant. Back to reality that she had escaped for just a moment with a sky full of stars and a handsome man who caught her counting them.
Baldwin stood on the edge of the dancefloor, watching sets of friends and acquaintances spin by in each other’s arms. Coming here, he had been expecting to be rubbed the wrong way by such things, but now…
Well, now he had far more pleasant things on his mind than the discomfort caused by the sight of true love. His thoughts kept returning to the auburn-haired beauty on the terrace and the brief connection he’d felt to her.
He was so lost in those thoughts that he did not notice his mother’s approach until the duchess touched his arm. “Mama,” he said with a nod. “I did not see you.”
“No.” She smiled. “You seemed leagues away. Are you having a very terrible time?”
He squeezed her hand at the concern in her voice. Whether she pushed him or not, he knew she wanted what was best for him, as much as for the title. If he found love with someone who could also raise their fortunes, she would be over the moon. Which was why he smiled when he said, “You know, I met your American.”
Her eyes went wide. “Did you?”
“I liked her,” he admitted with an arch of his brow.
His mother’s face lit up briefly before a shadow of doubt crossed it. “I am…I am happy to hear it.”
“Then why do you look confused?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Well, I only wonder how you managed to meet her.”
He blinked at the unexpected question. “How? What do you mean how? How does anyone meet at these crushes? I went out on the terrace to get some air and bumped into her there. We were not formally introduced, but she was…charming.”
He had expected his mother’s expression to brighten further, but she remained puzzled. “That isn’t possible, dear.”
“I assure you, it is,” he said, and felt the beginnings of irritation. Why in the world did she continue to insist that what he said was not true?
“But Miss Shephard has been dancing for the last thirty minutes, Baldwin,” she said, inclining her head toward the dancefloor. “Since before you exited for the terrace.”
He followed her gaze to find a blonde woman bobbing around the dancefloor. She was in what looked to be a very expensive gown that matched her blue eyes exactly and was talking—by the looks of it, rather loudly—with her partner.
Baldwin wrinkled his brow. “Who?” he asked.
His mother motioned her head more forcefully. “The one in blue, Baldwin. That is Charity Shephard. Her father is Peter Shephard. She is the American heiress.”
As Baldwin stared in disbelief at the lady in question, he noticed the terrace door far in the back of the room opened. The woman he had spoken to on the terrace slipped inside, took a deep breath and looked around the room.