An earl’s second son had options.
He could be embittered by his status as insurance against a title reverting to the crown, and go about in a perpetual ill humor in the church, the military, the diplomatic corps, or the academic disciplines.
He could indulge in a never-ending adolescence, leveraging biological utility into financial sustenance, wasting his allowance on the usual vices.
He could distance himself from the entire issue of the succession, finishing university as some sort of adult orphan, pretending no familial obligations limited his choices.
Will’s father had disapproved of the typical occupations for a younger son, calling them either dangerous or frivolous, or both. The life of a tolerated wastrel was beyond Will’s comprehension, as was the pretense that his family was an inconvenience rather than the center of his world.
Which left…protectiveness, and here Will’s nature had long since settled his fate. He was protective of his siblings, their interests, and their ambitions.
He was not prepared for that protectiveness to pale in comparison to his regard for Susannah Haddonfield. In the dimly lit alcove, she clung to Will as if he were the mighty oak whose shelter would never fail her, as if in all the world, he alone held her trust.
The arousal throbbing through Will muted to something rarer and equally fierce, even as voices drifted around the corner and Susannah stirred in his arms.
“That’s Della,” she whispered. “That’s Della, and she’s talking to a man.”
Ballrooms were full of men. Every hostess ensured it was so, as did her bottomless punch bowl, congenial card room, and network of connections among the mamas and dowager aunts.
“She might be talking to Effington,” Will said, his arms ignoring his command to release the lady from his embrace.
“Effington drawls, and whoever he is, he’s not happy with Della. I must go, Will.” Susannah kissed his cheek, and might have danced off to her sister’s rescue, but Will detained her for a moment, tugging her glove up to her elbow, tucking a lock of golden hair over her ear.
“We were enjoying a bit of air on the balcony,” Will said. “In plain view from the back terrace at all times.”
Those lovely, delicately traceable, kissable brows drew down. “Perhaps you should wait here.”
Not bloody likely. “Perhaps we should make haste. The conversation is turning acrimonious, and the retiring rooms are down the next corridor.”
Susannah’s posture shifted, shoulders back, chin up, expression serene. Will’s lover disappeared into a precise rendering of an aristocratic lady who need not answer to anybody for anything. She took Will’s arm and sauntered around the corner with him.
“I do not entirely agree that the sonnets are—oh, good evening, Della.”
The younger lady was not happy with the fellow glowering down at her. Her gloved hands were fists against her green skirts, her jaw set. Had she been a canine, her hackles would have been up, and her growl audible at twenty paces.
“Won’t you introduce us?” Lady Susannah asked. “Sir, you look familiar, but my memory fails me.”
Susannah was ignoring bad behavior, and making good behavior an attractive option for the combatants, one of the basic tenets of effective dog training.
“Jonathan Tresham,” the fellow said, bowing. “At your service.”
“My sister, Lady Susannah Haddonfield,” Lady Della bit out, “and our friend, Mr. Willow Dorning, of the Dorset Dornings.”
Tresham joined his hands behind his back, the gesture reminding Will of somebody. The name was damnably familiar too. Perhaps when Will’s blood had finished returning to its usual locations, his intellect might resume functioning.
“Pleased to meet you,” Tresham said, “my lady, and Mr. Dorning. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to the ballroom.”
Tresham wasn’t even trying to pretend he was pleased, about the company, about anything.
“I’ll come with you,” Will said. Until Susannah sorted her younger sister out, Will would be de trop. Then too, Tresham had provoked Lady Della—or she had provoked him—and he thus wanted watching.
Tresham tossed off another crisp bow and marched away, while Will wanted to kiss his lady farewell—clear evidence of besottedness, when he’d see Susannah within the next fifteen minutes, and probably dance with her too.
“Did that contretemps amuse you?” Tresham asked, stomping along. “Or do you smirk for some other reason?”
Growling and snapping were posturing behaviors in many species. “I’m having a pleasant evening, Mr. Tresham, though you apparently are not.”
Tresham paused before they reached the main stairs. A bust of Cicero stared blankly at them from an alcove, though some wit had adorned the old fellow’s marble head with a lady’s green silk garter.
“What is your connection to the Haddonfields?” Tresham asked.