CHAPTER 1
"Iassure you, Lady Morton, that I have never seen such a display outside of London."
Miss Eleanor Whitcombe smiled as though she cared about what she was saying. It was a smile, however, that did not quite reach her round, blue eyes. As a girl, she had expected events to be joyous, but she had eventually found that they were only as fun as they were novel. Lady Morton, the hostess for the evening, laughed politely.
"Thank you, Miss Whitcombe. I must admit that events outside of London are typically less interesting. I await the beginning of the next Season so that I will be titillated once again."
"Do you not enjoy the country?"
"I do, and I appreciate the quiet here as much as anyone else, but you must admit that there is a certain adventure that is lacking here."
Eleanor nodded in agreement, blonde curls bouncing slightly, though she had been in the room scarcely half an hour and had not yet decided whether she found it charming or suffocating. The ballroom was bright with candlelight, the air warm with conversation and music, and yet there was something about it that felt smaller than it ought to.
"It is a different sort of amusement," she said. "Perhaps it requires patience."
"Or resignation," Lady Morton replied.
Eleanor smiled again, though this time it was easier. The lady seemed pleased with that and continued speaking, though Eleanor had already begun to withdraw from the exchange in small, polite increments. She shifted her weight slightly, allowed her gaze to move just beyond her companion, and waited for a natural moment to excuse herself.
"You must forgive me," she said after a while. "I promised to find a friend of mine, and I see her nearby."
She moved through the crowd, every outward sign suggesting that she belonged exactly where she was. That was the advantage of the practice she had had. She had learned how to step into a space and appear as though she deserved to be there.
She paused briefly near one of the tall windows and allowed her gaze to sweep the room with greater care. It was all familiar enough, and yet she felt the distance. She may have taughtherself how to look as though she belonged, but that did not mean that she always felt it.
She smoothed her glove at the wrist before catching herself and stilling her hand.
"Miss Eleanor Whitcombe."
She turned at once.
"Good evening, Lord Harrowby."
There was no hesitation in the recognition, and certainly no need for introduction. He stood a few paces away, exactly as she remembered him. Time had not altered him so much as it had sharpened him. He nodded slightly, the gesture correct but not particularly warm.
"I had not expected to find you here," he said.
"Nor I you," she returned lightly. "Though I suspect the fault is mine. I ought to have inquired more carefully into the guest list."
"There is still time to regret the oversight."
"How kind of you to offer me an escape."
"I offer nothing of the sort," he said. "You may stay where you are while regretting such a tragic error."
Eleanor could not help but laugh softly. Lord Harrowby was a perfectly respectable gentleman, but there had always been something about him that she was uncertain of. Granted, there was a presence about him that most would find intimidating, but Eleanor was quite convinced that it was not that. His features were rather dark; his hair a deep brown and his eyes a cold gray-green, but he was always impeccably neat. There was nothing even remotely rugged about Julian Harrowby, neither in his looks nor his demeanor.
Strictly speaking, he was harmless.
"Of course," she replied. "You would not wish to be thought helpful."
"It would be misleading."
"You have not improved, then?"
"I was not aware that improvement was required."
"It is in most cases," she pointed out. "Everyone could do so, I would argue."