Knowing there was only one dance left before the night found its end—thank God—Magdalene restlessly turned her attention back to her son’s tall figure. He jutted well above the squat men alongside the far wall where he lingered in solitude near the open doors of the garden.

She paused as he dug into his evening coat pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound sketchbook. Those refined features remained unflinchingly calm amidst the blur of gaiety as he dabbed the tip of his graphite stick against his tongue, lowered his dark gaze and used the quick stroke of a hand to draw what appeared to be his interpretation of ballroom life. It was very much like Charles to sketch at a time when sketching was simply not an option.

He hadn’t danced once. As usual. Nor did he appear to have an interest in any of the women in attendance, unlike the rest of his virile little friends. Whatever set of introductions she had provided in the hopes of sparking his curiosity or conversation had been endured with typical edged politeness. She didn’t expect him to marry quite yet, and she supposed she should be happy that he didn’t ogle young ladies the way his peers did, but she did expect him to acknowledge people and converse. Or at the very least look at them. The rules of society demanded it, and yet he had no interest in following societal rules.

Shaking her head, she considered going over and speaking to him, when an astonishingly well-built gentleman with coal-black hair, garbed in dark, dashing evening attire, casually leaned against the wall beside Charles and began conversing with him.

Charles grinned, slapping his sketchbook shut, and tucked everything back into his pocket as he turned to the man with unprecedented enthusiasm. It was an exceptional interest he only ever showed one man.

Thornton.

Her stomach flipped and then flopped realizing that the man with Charles was, in fact, none other than Thornton himself.

Her new nemesis. Of sorts.

They had actually once been neighbors, and though Thornton had long since moved to a different square, they had remained the best of friends for years. They had a lot in common. They were both parents, widows, had been miserable in their respective marriages, and neither of them were interested in getting involved with the opposite sex ever again. They even cheekily toasted to it twice a year, on the anniversary of each of their spouses’ deaths.

Until one afternoon, whilst playing chess and having their brandies, he heatedly scanned her breasts with a searing enthusiasm she’d never seen, leaned across the board and kissed her. At first, she hadn’t known what to do. And then, she’d known exactly what to do and, much to her dismay, it involved her own tongue.

In a blur she could only blame on brandy, she’d whipped off his cravat and pushed open his shirt beneath his vest. That was when she realized their friendship, which she cherished beyond all else, was at an end and was giving way to meaningless lust. Or rather, harmful lust, which had only maimed her in life thus far. So, despite her attraction to him, she’d panicked and smacked him for introducing the kiss in the first place. She had smacked him a bit harder than she’d intended, and of course, without a word, he’d left.

He’d been avoiding her ever since.

Even though she’d written him countless letters apologizing for her behavior and had invited him to every event she had hosted, hoping to rekindle their friendship, he hadn’t responded. Not once. Not even so much as to tell her When Hell descends, which she would have preferred over piercing silence. So why had he come tonight? And so late? And so unannounced? To wage a war she wasn’t prepared to fight?

God, did she ever need a brandy.

She paused, noting that the crowded ballroom surrounding her had become unusually…smoky. She sniffed, wrinkling her nose against the acrid stench. It was as if a chute within one of the chimneys had been left closed. She glanced toward the large double doors beside her and froze.

Her gaze drifted upward, toward a hazy, gray-black smoke that wisped through the upper-top of her white Grecian archway. Her eyes widened. Had the chef gone mad with one too many bushels of charcoal in the stove?

Servants suddenly appeared beyond that same archway, each hoisting enormous wooden buckets. Several guests paused from their lively conversations to watch as the servants bustled past the entryway, one by one, splashing and trailing water across the marble floor of the corridor. The servants disappeared, all heading with said buckets toward the direction of the parlor.

Oh, no. She hurried toward the doorway, her breath hitching.

A bewigged footman in red livery and white silk stockings appeared and darted toward her. He skidded to a halt, keeping her from entering the main corridor. “My lady.” He leaned in and rasped, “Someone set fire to the parlor.”

She gasped. “As in, on purpose?”

“Not exactly.”

She glanced toward the corridor beyond them where the smoke plumed, her heart pounding. “Dearest God. Should we be evacuating people?”

He intently met her gaze and offered with austere gravity, “It would be best.”

“Move everyone out at once.”

“Yes, my lady.” He disappeared out into the corridor and returned with a gaggle of footmen. They all barreled into the ballroom, darting left and right through the crowds, yelling over the still-playing orchestra. Their reverberating shouts soon penetrated the entire room. “Fire!” they boomed, one by one by one. “Move out! Everyone please move out toward the direction of the garden!”

The instruments petered off. There was a momentary lapse of stillness, followed by the rapid scrambling of booted and slippered feet and a most unnecessary echoing slew of “Fire!”

Oh, for heaven’s

sake!

Panicked screams of women, young and old, and the escalating shouts of men trying to guide others filled the ballroom as everyone turned in chaotic unison toward the only entrance left in the room that wasn’t emitting smoke: the verandah. Amidst the frenzy of blurred faces and shoving coats and gowns, she momentarily glimpsed Thornton shoving Charles out through the open doors beside them, which led into the garden.

Thank God they were safe.

Tags: Stephanie Laurens Regencies Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net