Sydnam Butler and a lady dressed in rose pink, who was presumably his bride, stood in a pool of red rose petals inside the door at the far side of the room, looking startled and bewildered. The Duchess of Bewcastle was clapping her hands for silence.
“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Butler,” she said, her voice warm and cheerful, “you may have thought yourselves very clever indeed when you married in great secrecy a few weeks ago. But your relatives and friends have caught up with you after all. Welcome to your wedding breakfast.”
The children, without the distraction of an adult to play with them in the ballroom, had left it and were streaming past Peter to see what all the fuss was about. They were soon adding to the cheerful mayhem that ensued for a few minutes while everyone attempted to get close to the bride and groom and pump the hand of the one and kiss the cheek of the other.
But Peter, still and silent in the doorway, took no part in the collective merriment.
He had seen her.
She was dressed neatly in pale blue, her short curls vibrantly auburn in contrast. She was bending down to hug a little boy who, he guessed, must be Mrs. Butler’s son, and then she was reaching for Mrs. Butler herself and holding her in a close embrace for several seconds. She was laughing and tearful and bright-eyed and dazzling.
For several moments he simply gazed at her, his reluctance to see her again vanished without a trace. By Jove, he had missed her. He drank in the sight of her, more lovely and more vibrant than any other lady he had ever met.
She stepped aside so that the ladies with her-the Countess of Edgecombe and a brown-haired, severe-looking though not unhandsome woman who was probably Miss Martin-could take their turns greeting the bride. Susanna was waiting to pay her respects to Butler and was looking around at the other guests as she did so with bright, happy eyes.
And then those same eyes met his across the room-and her smile froze and then died altogether.
Peter was instantly conscious of himself again-and of the dashed uncomfortable fact that he had ruined her, made her a dishonorable offer, and left her without a backward glance, all within the space of one afternoon. And that now he was reappearing in her life without any warning and at just the time when she was celebrating the marriage of her friend.
He really ought not to have come, he thought again.
But dash it all, it was too late now to go away.
He strode purposefully across the room, intending to speak with her. But Lauren, flushed and animated, caught his arm as he approached, linking her own through it, led him up to the newlyweds, and proceeded to introduce him to Mrs. Butler, who was, he discovered, very lovely indeed. He bowed over her hand and raised it to his lips. He shook Sydnam’s left hand with his left and wished him well. Then he shook the boy’s hand-he was David Jewell-and winked and grinned at him.
“If you want to make your escape anytime soon,” he said, “you will doubtless find hordes of other young people in the ballroom-once they have found their way back there.”
The boy smiled back.
“Do come and sit at our table, Peter,” Lauren said as order began to replace the cheerful chaos of the past several minutes and the children made their way back to the ballroom rather than be caught up in the tedium of an adult tea party.
“I will, thank you, Lauren,” he said, “but there is someone to whom I must pay my respects first.”
Before he could delay too long and set up a greater awkwardness than he already felt, he strode over to the table where Susanna sat with Edgecombe and the countess, Lord and Lady Aidan Bedwyn, the unknown severe-looking lady, and the duchess’s sister, Miss Thompson.
“Whitleaf,” Edgecombe said, standing to shake hands with him. “Good to see you again.”
“But of course,” the countess said, smiling at him, “you are related to Lady Ravensberg, are you not? It is a pleasure to see you again, Lord Whitleaf.”
And yet there was a hint of something in her tone that suggested she was not entirely pleased. Or perhaps his conscience was just playing tricks on him.
He bowed to her and to Miss Thompson, who must have arrived with her mother after he went into the ballroom, and turned his eyes on Susanna.
“Miss Osbourne?” he said. “I trust you are well?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said with perfect composure and a polite smile on her face-as if they had never lain together on a secluded hill above the river at Barclay Court. “And you, my lord?”
“Quite well,” he said, “thank you.”
Good Lord, where was his arsenal of small talk when he most needed it? But perhaps it was as well it had deserted him utterly, or he might have found himself saying something totally asinine like great beauty having to be a prerequisite for a teaching position at Miss Martin’s School for Girls. He had the feeling that present company would not be at all amused by such a compliment.
“My lord,” Susanna said before he could make his escape to his own table, “may I present Miss Martin, owner of the school where I teach? This is Viscount Whitleaf, Claudia. He was staying not far from Barclay Court while I was a guest there.”
The severe-looking stranger whose identity he had guessed earlier inclined her head while he bowed and favored her with his most charming smile.
“Ma’am,” he said. “This is a pleasure I have long desired.”
They were only mildly extravagant words, but looking into her unsmiling gray eyes, he felt suddenly stripped naked. Not in any physical way, it was true, but he felt as if every layer of artifice were being stripped away and she was recognizing him for the shallow fribble that he was. He wondered if Susanna had told her anything about him.
“How do you do, Lord Whitleaf,” she said.
He retreated in reasonably good order after that and sat with his back to their table while he took tea and conversed with all around him and listened to the few speeches and toasts that followed it. He would have enjoyed the afternoon, he knew, if there had not been those few minutes of uncharacteristic gaucherie to bother him. And if he could have convinced himself that he had any business being here.
He knew she was not pleased to see him.
“You may all expect,” Sydnam Butler was saying to the whole gathering after commenting on the surprise of finding so many guests awaiting them here, “that Anne and I will put our heads together over the winter when there is nothing else to do and devise a suitable revenge.”
Peter joined in the general laughter.
And then, soon after the speeches and toasts were at an end, his ears sharpened to something Hallmere was saying at the next table.
“It was just here that we waltzed for the first time, Freyja,” he said. “Do you remember?”
Peter had been wondering how Susanna felt to be in the same room with Lady Hallmere, who had once refused to give her employment as her maid and who had perhaps been responsible for sending her to Bath as a charity pupil in Miss Martin’s school. And he had been wondering if Lady Hallmere remembered her.
But the lady was speaking.
“How could I forget?” she said. “It was while we waltzed that you begged me to enter into a fake betrothal with you, and before we knew it we were in a marriage together-but not a fake one at all.”
They both laughed-as did everyone else at their table and a few at Peter’s.
Kit had certainly heard the exchange.
“It would be a shame,” he said, raising his voice and getting to his feet at the same time, “to have an orchestra and the use of one of the most famous ballrooms in the country and not dance. I shall instruct the orchestra to play a waltz. But we must remember that this is a wedding celebration. The bride must dance first. Will you waltz with me, Anne?”