“Your sources are correct, my lady.”
She shook her blond curls. “That’s surprising to me, because I remember how much you once enjoyed dancing and being the center of attention.”
“You remember the boy, Lady Harralson, not the man.”
She pursed her lips in thought. “I suppose that’s true, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be true to my reputation if I didn’t make it clear that no one attends one of my parties in order to avoid dancing.”
Colin inhaled deeply and then slowly released his breath. “Will you not make an exception?”
Lady Harralson shook her head. “No exceptions,” she said.
“Not even for a weary man?” He wasn’t above attempting to play upon her sympathy.
“You don’t look weary, Lord Grantham.”
“A tribute to Shepherdston’s valet,” he assured her. “For I’m dead on my feet.”
“Too dead on your feet to dance?” she asked.
“With you?”
She held up her dance card, opening it for him to see. “My dance card is already full, Lord Grantham. But there’s a certain young lady who hasn’t danced all evening, and I wouldn’t be much of a hostess if I didn’t try to remedy the situation.”
Colin groaned. Any young lady who had failed to find a dancing partner in this crush was certain to be awkward and shy, have two left feet, possess the face of a gargoyle, and carry the approximate tonnage of a frigate. He held up his hand to ward off the possibility.
“Give in, Colin,” she cajoled, “for you know you can’t refuse me.”
He relented with an inner groan. No, he couldn’t refuse her. He’d never been able to refuse her. Lady Harralson had always had a way of getting around his slightest bit of resistance and of getting her way. She was three years older than he, and Colin had been betrothed to her from his cradle. The only time he had ever known Mary Esme Kelverton to fail to achieve her heart’s desire was when she failed to persuade her father to abide by the betrothal agreement Lord McElreath and Lord Kelverton had drawn up years earlier in order to settle a gambling debt. Lord Kelverton had hated breaking his word, but marriage was serious business. And Lord Kelverton couldn’t take a chance tying his only daughter to a bad risk. Lord McElreath had gambled his fortune away, and his heir would inherit nothing except a title and debts—debts even the Kelverton fortune would not be able to settle should McElreath’s heir prove the adage: like father, like son.
Esme had been twelve at the time and Colin only nine, when Lord Kelverton broke the marriage contract that had bound them together.
Five years later, Esme was sent to London to marry Lord Harralson. She seemed happy with her much older husband, but Colin had never quite gotten over the loss of his betrothed. From that day forward, Colin had been acutely aware of the fact that despite his impeccable breeding and his ancient title, Lord Kelverton had found him lacking. Colin McElreath, Viscount Grantham, hadn’t been good enough or rich enough to be Esme Kelverton’s husband.
He closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of Esme’s persuasive face. He shrugged his shoulders.
Lady Harralson took that as a sign of obvious capitulation and reached for his elbow. “Come, I’ll introduce you.”
* * *
Gillian crumpled her dance card in her hand and methodically added another corner of it to the growing pile of bits and pieces hidden within the folds of her gown.
It was, she decided, no great loss, since the elegant, fan-shaped, cream-colored card was blank.
So far, she hadn’t had a single opportunity to make use of her favorite dancing slippers because no one—not one single eligible gentleman—had signed her dance card.
Oh, she had had several offers, but her mother had actively discouraged the gentlemen making those offers. Still, Gillian had to admit that they’d been an interesting lot of fortune hunters, rogues, rakes, and lechers. Gillian frowned and ripped another piece from her dance card. She didn’t blame her mother for discouraging those so-called gentlemen. That was a chaperone and a mother’s duty.
And if the truth were known, Gillian would have discouraged them herself, if her mother hadn’t done so. She wasn’t interested in being seen with any of them anyway, because none of the men who approached her tonight would have dared approach her—or any other young lady of unblemished reputation—a month ago. No matter how attractive or wealthy or well connected she was.
Gillian sighed. That could only mean one thing: Word of her elopement had reached the ears of the members of the ton. She was disgraced. Her reputation ruined. And she had no one to blame but herself.
Oh, how the mighty had fallen. Gillian firmed her lips and gritted her teeth to keep from succumbing to the tears burning her eyes and her throat. She knew she wasn’t considered a great beauty. Her eyes were too big. Her face was too small. Her chin too pointed, and her dark, curly hair too unruly to fit the classical ideal of beauty, but she was attractive enough to have garnered her fair share of suitors and attention, regardless of her father’s massive fortune. Or so she believed.
Now, it seemed that the opposite was true.
But who could blame these would-be suitors for attempting to take advantage of her situation? There were plenty of marriageable girls with unblemished reputations and respectable dowries. Only the most desperate suitor would consider a girl with a tarnished reputation, and those suitors necessarily looked first to her fortune and then to her character.
Although Lady Harralson had gone out of her way to welcome her and to dispel rumors, Gillian knew that accepting the invitation and coming here tonight had proved to be a huge embarrassment and an even bigger mistake. One of the biggest of her life. One of the biggest in a growing list of regrettable decisions. She should have refused the invitation and stayed at home. But she had been home over a week, and Papa had insisted she resume her place in society. Gillian had reluctantly agreed in an effort to please her father and mother and to make amends for the distress her foolish indiscretion had caused.