OLIVER STARED DOWN AT his cards but, for the life of him, he could not concentrate. His mind was on a balcony and the pale face of a woman he hadn’t truly spoken with in nearly two years.
“I say, are you well, man?” Cards held loosely in his hand, Wainwright regarded him with furrowed brow.
“I’m fine,” he said, even as he again saw the hurt on Lydia’s face.
“I think Wainwright’s correct.” Her own cards ignored, Lady Wainwright peered at Oliver. “You do appear decidedly peaked.”
“I promise I’m fine.” Shifting in his seat, he concentrated on the cards in his hand.
“Don’t tease him, Lady Wainwright,” Wainwright said. “He has managed to emerge once again into society, much like a newly born chick hatching and blinking eyes at a bright and terrible world. We shouldn’t discourage him.”
Lady Wainwright nodded gravely. “It is true. We should encourage his brave venture into the unknown.”
“It must be confusing, being amongst other people,” Wainwright continued. “Why, look how he retreats to those he knows rather than enjoy the charms of strangers in his midst.”
“Yes, it is odd. For two years, we have noted his presence at only the occasional society outing, and even then I do not recall seeing him at a ball for well over a year. Yet, in the past three months, he has attended musicals and dinner parties and, yes, even balls. What, pray tell, could have changed?”
“I have no notion, my dear. Shall we ask him?”
“Yes, let us ask him.” They both turned overly expectant expressions to him.
Exhaling, Oliver scowled at his cards. Wainwright was barely concealing his glee, his light blue eyes alight. His lady held the same expression, her own cornflower blue gaze trained with false innocence upon him. He’d known Wainwright since his first year at Eton and, as his closest friend, Wainwright’s favourite sport was to needle Oliver, though to be fair Oliver’s favourite sport was to needle his friend back. When his friend had wooed and wed the girl would become Lady Wainwright, he’d thought perhaps marriage would put a halt to their sport. Instead, Lady Wainwright had valiantly entered the playing field and now he had two people who delighted in needling him. “Are you done?” he asked.
“I don’t know. My dear, are we done?” Wainwright asked his lady.
“I’m unsure, Wainwright. He has not yet answered our question.”
“You didn’t ask a question, you issued a statement,” Oliver pointed out, but when had logic ever stopped Wainwright and his lady?
“True, true. How very remiss of us.” Lady Wainwright propped her chin in her hand. “What has changed?”
Christ. One would have thought he would have learnt by now. He cast a desperate look at Wainwright, but his friend merely grinned maniacally. “I simply felt the need for society.”
“How odd. Society. And yet he has not felt the need for—How long was it again, dear?”
“Two years,” Wainwright answered, an unholy gleam to his eye.
“Two whole years. My. One might suppose something in particular has prompted this re-emergence. Is it something in particular, Roxwaithe?”
Oliver cast his gaze toward the refreshment room. “Has not Miss Hurcombe taken an age? Perhaps she requires assistance.”
“My sister is capable of returning from the refreshments by herself.” Lady Wainwright’s lips twitched. “Do tell us what has changed, Roxwaithe.”
“I told you. I had a strange need for society, which I am now regretting.”
Wainwright propped his elbow on the back of his chair. “My dear, do you think he means us?” he said to his wife.
“I rather think he does,” she responded brightly.
“I rue the day I met you,” Oliver told Wainwright.
“Alas, we were but young lads then, and Eton held enough horrors that we are forever bound to one another. We will stop now, though,” Wainwright said magnanimously, waving his hand in the air.
“Thank you ever so,” Oliver said.
Lady Wainwright stood. “Actually, Cynthia has been an age. I should go see what is keeping her.” Passing a brief caress over her husband’s shoulder, she abandoned them for the refreshments room.
Oliver watched her go before turning back to his cards only to catch Wainwright regarding him closely. “What?”
“There is truth in our jests, you know. You rarely attend balls anymore, bar these last three months.”
“You rarely attend either.”
“Ah, but we have children and an estate in Penrith.”
“I have an estate in Northumberland.”
“You are never there, whereas we spend most of the year in Penrith. In fact, we return next week.”
“You will? You did not tell me.”
“It is hard to tell a person anything when one does not see them.”
“We saw each other at the Garland’s musical two weeks ago.”
“ʽSaw each other’ being the operative. You lurked in a corner and scowled at orchestra. We did not speak.”
“Fine, it must have been….” Oliver racked his brain. Belatedly, he remembered the Oritons’ dinner party a month ago. Had it really been that long?
Wainwright smirked.
Oliver exhaled. “I concede, it has been a while. When next week will you depart?”
“Tuesday. Lady Wainwright has a commitment that presents us from leaving before then.” Wainwright’s brow lifted. “We know why, anyway.”
“Know what?”
“Why you are here. Lydia Torrence is looking decidedly well this evening.”
Heat rose from his neck and, of a sudden, his cards were of intense interest.
“It is strange how she has returned from the Continent to enter London society and now you are a regular feature at balls and musicals and such,” Wainwright continued. “Only last week, Lady Wainwright and I saw you at the theatre. The theatre, Roxwaithe. And yet, you do not approach her. What happened? There was a time when you could not speak but to mention her.”
His head whipped up. “Pardon?”
“Every second word was an observation of Lydia Torrence’s. Lady Wainwright was convinced you would offer for her as soon as she made her bow.”
He stared at his friend in disbelief. “She is fourteen years younger than me.”
“So?”
“She is a child.”
Wainwright opened his mouth to respond only to look past him. “She doesn’t look like a child,” he said.
Brows drawn, he followed Wainwright’s gaze. Lydia had entered the room, glorious in a gown of soft green and pale gold, and the low-cut bodice made it obvious to all that she was not a child. Not in the slightest. The group of young men surrounding her led her to a card table, fawning over her as she took her seat.
During the year and more she’d been away, she’d grown fully into her looks, becoming a woman for all he protested otherwise. Her upswept red-gold hair rioted around features that fulfilled the promise of beauty, a straight nose and high cheekbones framing a mouth with a thin upper lip and a full lower one. She’d done something to them and they were redder than he remembered, glistening in the candlelight and making him want to slick them with his own tongue.
Christ, what was he thinking? Hastily, he averted his gaze.
“A child, is she?” Wainwright asked.
Oliver didn’t respond.
“She is nineteen, is she not?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty. Then, I would hypothesise that she is not, as you say, a child.”
“She is still too young.”
Wainwright studied him. “If you say so.”
“Besides, she is as a sister to me,” Oliver felt compelled to add. “She and Lady Alexandra both. All the Torrences are as family, and Lord Demartine has always assisted me greatly with the management of the Roxwaithe estate. Perhaps that is why I spoke of her often.”
“Perhaps.”
“I enjoyed her company when she was growing, but she is in society now. She had that year on the Continent, which I can only think was for the best. Look how popular she has become.”
“A veritable Incomparable.”
“Yes. I imagine Lord Demartine is inundated with request for permission to court her.” The words tasted bitter. “I saw her on the balcony with Whitton,” he said abruptly.
For a moment, all was silent. He refused to look at Wainwright, refused to see what might be in Wainwright’s gaze. “Did you?”
“I yelled at her. I have not spoken with her for an age and I—” His voice cracked. Swallowing, he again saw her pale face, the anger, the hurt. “I yelled at her,” he repeated softly.
“What were they doing?” Wainwright asked. “She and Whitton?”
“They— He—” Bile rose in his throat.
“Ah.” Wainwright paused. “Do you truly believe she is like a sister?”
He stared down at his clenched fist, the cards bending in his grip. “Yes.”
“Then you have no say. She makes her own decisions. Unless you give her a reason to change her mind, you cannot interfere.”
“What if she is behaving recklessly with her reputation? You did not see them, Wainwright.”
“I would wager Lady Lydia had everything well in hand.”
The cards blurred. Wainwright spoke truly. Lydia always had everything well in hand.
“You cannot wait, Roxwaithe,” Wainwright said, compassion stark in his tone. “She is surrounded by suitors. You will wake up one day and discover her affianced, and then married. Do not live with regret, my friend. It makes a poor bedfellow.”
Oliver shook his head. His friend had no idea of what he spoke.
Wainwright sighed. “I tried,” he said to the heavens.
“Tried what?” Lady Wainwright took her seat next to her husband.
“Tried to change Roxwaithe’s mind. A feat doomed to failure.” He looked at the empty seat beside his lady. “Where is Miss Hurcombe, my dear?”
“Cynthia was asked to dance.”
“Ah.” Turning his gaze, Wainwright studied Oliver.
“What?” he asked.
“You are like a woolly mammoth. When are you going to shave? I can lend you my valet, should your own be subpar.”
Lady Wainwright walked her fingers up her husband’s arm. “I wouldn’t be so quick to remove it. I find all that hair…affecting.”
Wainwright’s eyes brightened. “Really? Well, my lady, shall we talk about that some?”
Oliver studied the ceiling as Wainwright and his lady flirted outrageously. He often told himself he wasn’t jealous of his friend, but every now and then, envy snuck up on him. A wife who loved him, joyous children who bestowed hugs and kisses even on their hairy uncle Roxwaithe, a life that was shared….
Across the room, Lydia played her cards, laughing as she folded her hand and batted her fan on the forearm of the gentleman beside her.
Sometimes, envy snuck up on him.