JAMES TREVOR, the Earl of Stafford, hadn't been to a ball in years. And he hadn't particularly wanted to come to this one. However, being a man who liked to look for the good in things, he'd decided to regard tonight as an opportunity to renew a few acquaintances. Griffin Chase, the Marquess of Cainewood, was one of them.
But his old chum didn't look very happy.
"Whom are you glaring at, Cainewood?"
"My sister." Cainewood's frown deepened. "She's not dancing."
James's gaze followed the marquess's across the ballroom, landing on what looked like a dainty sprite. He lifted his quizzing glass and squinted through it. "That wheaten-haired little thing?"
"Wearing yellow? Yes, that would be Juliana, wasting precious time."
"She's conversing with another woman—"
"Another sister. But Juliana is supposed to be meeting men. I despair of ever finding her a husband."
"Ah." Dropping the quizzing glass, James let it dangle on its long silver chain and focused on Cainewood, who'd been a boon companion in their days at Oxford. He hadn't seen the man in years, and he'd never met his family, but in an odd way he felt he still knew him. He couldn't help but smile at his old friend's consternation.
"Juliana is twenty-two," Cainewood added as though that explained everything.
"That doesn't sound particularly old." James himself was twenty-nine.
"I'll have to marry Corinna off after her." Cainewood gestured toward his other sister, a pretty girl with long, wavy brown hair. "I'd hoped to get them both settled this season, but Juliana isn't cooperating. And unfortunately, I believe she's already met everyone here, except…" His green gaze narrowed on James. "Perhaps you."
"Me?"
"Yes, you," Cainewood said with the easy smile that had won him so many women in their university years. "Will you at least suffer an introduction to Juliana? You're an earl now, aren't you? An earl needing a wife."
An earl needing a wife—the exact same words James's mother had used to describe him earlier this evening as she'd all but dragged him from the carriage into this house.
But although James had inherited the title nearly three years ago, he still had a hard time thinking of himself as an earl, let alone an earl needing a wife.
A second son raised in a close family, James had never thought he'd become the Earl of Stafford. That had been his older brother's future, not his. Following university, James's father had bought him a commission in the army. He hadn't ever minded being an officer. It was expected. He wasn't drawn toward the clergy, and many of his friends—Cainewood included—had embraced the military life. After less than two years, though, James had been wounded and sent home.
Thinking back to those days now, he shifted and flexed his left knee, which always ached in the sort of cold, wet weather London had seen this summer. On days like this he still walked with a slight limp, but he was profoundly grateful the army surgeons had managed to save his leg rather than amputating it. So grateful that, needing another profession after his recovery, he'd become a physician. He hadn't been long out of medical school before he'd realized he'd found his true calling. In the years following his return to England, James had been a man completely happy with his choice of work and his life, especially after he fell in love and married.
Then everything had fallen apart.
His brother had died first, leaving James reeling with the realization that he'd someday be the earl. He didn't want to be an earl—he liked being a physician. He liked helping people, and he liked feeling that he made a difference. Every day was unique and challenging, and there were always successes to balance the disappointments. Managing an earldom seemed such a tedious, thankless task in comparison.
Then, while he was still coping with the loss of his brother, his father's heart had stopped, and suddenly James was the earl, like it or not.
The first months after that had passed in a dark, painful blur, but his young wife had helped him through those days and weeks, until one morning James had awakened and realized he was happy. Perhaps a bit guiltily happy—he still mourned his brother and father, after all—but happy nonetheless. He'd found he quite liked sitting in the House of Lords—it was another chance to make a difference—and managing the earldom wasn't as thankless a task as he'd believed. And, in addition, his wife had convinced him that he could be a physician as well as an earl, regardless of the narrow views of society, and help more people than ever, now that he had no need of the income.
Utilizing the vast fortune left to him, James had opened a facility in London where children whose families were too poor to pay for doctors could get smallpox vaccinations, an endeavor dear to his heart. Life had been good again. And he and his wife were expecting a baby, their first child.
What man wouldn't have been happy?
Then his wife had died in childbirth, and their baby, born too early, had died along with her. All the physicians, James included, hadn't made a bit of a difference. And James had wondered if he'd ever be happy again.
Now, two years later, he was still wondering. But his mother was pressuring him to remarry and sire some heirs, and although he didn't expect to find happiness or love again, he figured he might as well at least consider making her happy. She was a good, caring mother, after all, and perhaps a wife, even one not loved, would ease some of the loneliness he'd suffered these two years past. So he'd allowed himself to be dragged to this ball. And now he forced himself to smile and answer Cainewood.
"Yes, I'm an earl. And I'd be pleased to meet your sister."
Cainewood wasted no time marching him across the room and introducing him to both of his sisters. As James bowed over Juliana's hand, he caught himself gazing into dancing eyes that were full of life. He'd thought he'd be immune to Cainewood's sister, so he found himself surprised. Or perhaps shocked would be a better word.
And it felt wrong somehow.
But Cainewood's sister was a pretty thing, and he couldn't seem to wrench his gaze from those eyes. Green eyes. No, blue. He couldn't decide. They seemed to change as he watched.
"Will you honor me with a dance?" he asked, bemused.
"It would be my pleasure," she assured him.
He hadn't danced since his wife died. He wondered if he remembered how. But there was a waltz playing, and Juliana fairly melted into his arms.
He remembered.
"What color are your eyes?" he asked.
She laughed, a joyful, tinkling sound. "Hazel. Why?"
"I couldn't tell. They looked green at first, but now they look blue."
"Well, they're hazel," Juliana repeated, wishing he would stop staring at them. It seemed almost as though he could see right through them, as though he could see into her head. As though he could glimpse her very soul. And that was an unnerving thought, no matter that she had nothing to hide.
She glanced away, her gaze landing on her married sister. Alexandra had come to town for the season while her new husband claimed his seat in the House of Lords. How happy they looked dancing together, Alexandra's dark eyes locked on Tristan's steady gray gaze. Their road to romance had been a rocky one, but they'd been fated to be together from the first—and Juliana had known that, of course.
If only she could find such a love for herself.
Still feeling Lord Stafford's gaze on her, she shifted in his arms and met his eyes, mentally daring him to look away. He didn't. His eyes were a warm brown, reminding her of chocolate. She loved chocolate. But she had to look up to see those eyes. Way up.
She could get a crick in her neck dancing with such a man.
"I haven't seen you at any other balls," she commented. "You must take your duty to Parliament seriously."
The corners of those warm eyes crinkled when he smiled. "That and my profession."
"Your profession?"
"I'm a physician."
"I thought you were an earl," she said.
One of his dark brows went up. "Can I not be both?"
"Of course you can," she said quickly, although she'd never heard of an earl-physician. "What do you do, exactly? Have you many patients?"
"Some, although I'm not taking on any new ones. Most of my time is spent at my facility, the New Hope Institute."
"New Hope," she mused. "I've heard of that. Something to do with smallpox?"
"I provide vaccinations, yes. To anyone willing to receive one, regardless of the ability to pay."
"That sounds like very important work," she allowed. He was a most unusual man. And an excellent dancer. Having noticed a slight limp as he'd initially approached her, she wouldn't have thought he'd dance so gracefully.
However, much as she enjoyed dancing, finding a man who excelled at it wasn't her priority. After all, it wasn't as though she had a shortage of dance invitations—she danced her feet off at every ball, with or without Griffin in attendance. She had no problem attracting men; the problem was finding one she considered husband material. And Lord Stafford had many shortcomings.
When the music came to an end, he led her by the hand off the dance floor. "It was a pleasure, my lady."
His voice was warm like his eyes, low and smooth, reminding her again of rich chocolate. The very sound of it seemed to weaken her knees. "Thank you," she said.
The musicians struck up a country dance, and as he was still holding her hand, she half expected him to lead her straight back to the dance floor. Instead, he raised her fingers toward his mouth. Then, rather than pucker his lips in the customary salute in the air above her hand, he lowered them to actually touch her glove.
Scandalous. She could have sworn she felt the kiss through the white silk. A tingly sensation.
"Thank you," she repeated more faintly.
"Thank you," he echoed with a smile.
A smile that looked as dazed as she felt.
No sooner had he turned to leave than Griffin descended, snapping her back to reality. "Well?" he asked.
She watched Lord Stafford walk away, shoulders broad beneath his tailcoat. Loose, tousled curls grazed his black velvet collar. Many fashionable men achieved a similar look with pomade and curl papers, but his hair looked naturally tousled. Like he was too busy to bother to control it.
"He's too dark," she said.
"Pardon?"
"You know I prefer golden-haired men. And he's entirely too tall—I felt like a child dancing with him."
Griffin looked down on her, both literally and figuratively. "Face it, Juliana—you're short."
As though she hadn't noticed most of the world towered over her. "He works," she said. "He has a profession."
"And this makes him unacceptable as a husband?"
"Should I marry him, he wouldn't have any time for me." She wanted a grand love, like Alexandra and Tristan's; she wanted a husband who loved her to distraction. She wanted endless hours spent in passion with the man she decided to marry. And for heaven's sake, this man couldn't even find a few minutes to comb his hair. "I'm sorry, but he just won't do."
The fact that Lord Stafford's work was important was hardly a mitigating factor—and the fact that her heart had stuttered when he'd so impertinently kissed her hand had no bearing whatsoever.
Griffin released a long-suffering sigh. "I shall keep looking."
"You do that," she said, patting his arm and silently wishing him luck. The spice cakes had clearly been a waste. Poor Griffin. "In the meantime, I must speak with Alexandra."
She scanned the ballroom in search of her older sister and finally found her talking to Aunt Frances.
"Who was that you were dancing with?" Alexandra asked as she approached.
"Lord Stafford."
"He's very handsome."
"His hair is too dark." At Alexandra's blank look, Juliana shrugged. "Can you come to the Berkeley Square house this Wednesday afternoon?"
"I expect so. Why?"
"I need help making clothes for the Foundling Hospital babies."
"Your newest project, I take it?" Alexandra's brown eyes sparkled with mischief. "What have you got yourself into this time?"
If only she knew. "Corinna wanted to see the Hospital's art gallery, but oh, the poor foundlings were heartbreaking. And their mothers." Just thinking back on the balloting, Juliana wanted to cry. "I must do something to help them."
"Of course you must," Aunt Frances said. "With you, it's always something."
That much was true; Juliana couldn't deny it. "And what does that make me?" she wondered. "Impulsive? Melodramatic? Judgmental, overwrought, overemotional?" She stopped there, knowing she was all of those and more. Honestly, she could go on and on.
Which was why she wanted to hug Alexandra when she said, "No. That makes you compassionate, giving, hopeful. Kind and unselfish and vulnerable." Her perfect, responsible, married sister gifted her with a quiet smile. "It makes you lovable, Juliana. That's what it makes you the most."
She did hug her sister then, and her aunt, too, her heart not broken now but aching with warmth and affection instead. Yet all the while she was wondering: If I'm so lovable, why can't I find a husband to love?