Alasdair shook his head in disbelief.
That same evening, Alasdair and Seth found themselves at Lady Elsmere’s musicale, a stark contrast to the raucous tensions of White’s. The shift from chaos to calm was almost surreal, though the weight of earlier clashes lingered between them.
The drawing room was warm and softly lit, filled with perfectly poised guests seated in neat rows. A harp’s gentle notes floated through the air, adding to the genteel atmosphere.
Alasdair stood behind Seth, arms crossed, doing his best to adopt the proper manners expected of him. He was trying. For his father’s sake, for Seth’s, and for his own.
Yet despite his efforts, the truth remained: he had no desire to be here.
“Luckily, it looks like there will be less yelling, and more music tonight,” Seth said wryly.
Alasdair ignored the subtle glance that was clearly meant for him, his eyes drifting to steady himself for what might come next. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw.
There she was.
The lady from the gallery.
He hadn’t expected to see her again. She looked like someone who preferred to slip away unnoticed, yet here she sat, just three rows ahead. Beside her was a younger woman with light brown hair, whispering and giggling softly. The lady from the gallery offered only a tight, strained smile.
Nearby, a few ladies glanced their way. Alasdair’s curiosity flickered to something harder—anger—as he caught the disdainful looks aimed at the two girls.
Despite the jeers, the gallery lady remained rigid. But he noticed the slight tremble of her shoulders, the subtle tension in her clenched hands resting in her lap.
Then she turned.
Their eyes met, and he caught his breath. Time slowed as they held each other’s gaze.
In that moment, the scorn of the lords and the weight of his family’s shame melted away.
Her cheeks flushed deep red, and she turned away.
But he couldn’t look away.
The music played on, but Alasdair couldn’t focus. His mind was tangled with the vision of the blonde woman, a few seats away. Her delicate nape, the loose curls framing her face…
Then, a sharp nudge from the side jolted him back.
Seth nudged him again, more pointedly this time. “You’ve gotthatlook.”
Alasdair blinked, “What look?”
“Thelook,” Seth said, tilting his head toward the rows ahead. “The one that says your thoughts are very far from harp music and painfully proper soirées. You’ve been staring at the blonde three rows up like she’s a battlefield you can’t wait to charge into.”
Alasdair’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it.
Seth raised a brow. “Don’t be coy,Redmoor. Who is she?”
“A woman,” Alasdair said, his voice low but thoughtful.
He’d noticed the closeness between the gallery lady and the younger woman sitting next to her. The protective tilt of the gallery lady’s head, the way the younger held her arm.
Sisters, surely.
He hoped he was right: it meant that his gallery lady had likely had a Season or two already and, most importantly, remained unmarried.
Seth leaned back with a curious smile. “Are you planning to speak with her? I haven’t seen you take such interest in anyone since… well, since I met you.”
Alasdair gave a snort. “Nae, of course not. I’m not here for a lark, Seth. I’m here to polish up my English manners and mingle with the ‘right sort of folk,’ remember? Yer words, not mine.”