He noted the presence of a few other ladies, no doubt their curiosity getting the better of them. Or perhaps they saw an opportunity to contrast themselves against the earl’s daughter. At twenty-seven, he had yet to participate in the game of courtship. He was here tonight only because he believed it important to remain in the good graces of every decent lord. One never knew when the support of a particular nobleman—or permission to marry his daughter—might be needed. And Bremsford was a man of influence.
Once they’d crossed the threshold, he and King made their way along the hallway that eventually emptied into a large chamber with a wide stairway on either side, circling around to meet in the middle at the top where an enormous doorway yawned. They reached the stairs on their right. A footman offered them each a dance card. King took one and tucked it inside his jacket, while Knight simply waved off the vellum. They weren’t going to be here long enough to partake in any dances. After their ascent, they greeted those standing about whom they knew and took their places in the queue.
“What do you think?” Knight whispered, keeping his voice low and even. “Half an hour?”
“Twenty minutes. A smile here and a smile there, and we’ll make our escape.”
After the couple before them were introduced and began their descent, Knight glanced down as King handed his invitation over to the majordomo. He recognized Bremsford standing tall, proud, and defiant near the foot of the stairs, his hair having faded from the wheat shade of his youth into silver. The young lady to his right glanced up—
Knight felt like he’d taken a battering ram to the chest. All the air in his lungs had backed up and he could scarcely breathe. “Christ, is that her?”
King looked down. “I would assume so.”
She was exquisite. Her hair, the shade of moonbeams, was held in place with pearl combs, a few strands dangling about her face and along her slender neck. She barely reached her father’s shoulder. While she was poised, exhibiting grace with her movements, the tiniest of pleats in her brow reflected an uncomfortableness, perhaps even a sadness. Yet, there she stood performing—like her mother, an actress—because the show must go on.
“Sir?”
Her gown was entirely white, the candlelight from the chandeliers sparkling off what must have been a million tiny pearls, making it iridescent, glowing like newly fallen snow under a full moon. His favorite time to walk the moors of the ducal estate in Yorkshire.
Then he could no longer see her because King—with his irritatingly broad back—was blocking Knight’s view as his friend made his way toward Bremsford. Had he been announced? Knight hadn’t heard it, perhaps because he’d been so focused on the girl that everything around him had ceased to exist, everything except her.
“Sir?”
Leaning to the right in an attempt to catch sight of her again, he heard a harsh clearing of a throat. Then, “Knightly, for God’s sake, man, do pay attention.”
Glancing over his shoulder, he was greeted by the Earl of Chadbourne glowering at him. He glowered back before hearing the quiet, “Sir?”
Only then did he realize the majordomo was holding out a white gloved hand to him. “Apologies.” He offered up his invitation, his name scrawled across it.
The man gave a curt nod before booming, “His lordship, the Earl of Knightly.”
Wanting to dash down the stairs, Knight felt rather like an untried youth, which was ridiculous. He’d had women aplenty but something about her drew him, created a need to protect her when it was obvious her father served as her protector. She was a bird in a gilded cage, a girl in a tower. Bollocks but he was having fanciful thoughts. And he did manage not to dash, but to take his time, carrying himself with the confidence honed by generations of warrior ancestors who had engaged not only in battles on the field but in the political arena. A duty that would pass to him upon his father’s death, a duty that required a strong woman at his side.
King finally moved on, giving Knight a clearer view of the lady who shifted her attention back to the stairs, her eyes capturing and holding his. Now that he was nearer and could see her more clearly, she didn’t appear to be as young as most debutantes. Not fresh from finishing school at seventeen or eighteen. No, he’d wager she was on the other side of twenty, but not by much. Enough so, though, to make her interesting, to have had the opportunity to experience a bit more of life. Although he suspected the circumstances of her birth had already granted her that favor—or disfavor, depending how things had gone.
At last, the final step arrived and after five more strides, he was standing before the Earl of Bremsford. He gave a bow of deference. “My lord.”
“Knightly, good to see you here. Your father is well I take it?”
While the question seemed inordinately polite, it carried an undertone of He’d best be on his deathbed since he couldn’t bother to show his face here. While he hardly blamed the earl, Knight was loyal to his sire. “The duke is well, my lord. I’ll relay your concern for his health.”
Bremsford gave a little grunt before continuing. “My lord, allow me the honor of introducing my daughter, Miss Regina Leyland.”
Had she been his legitimate child, she’d have been Lady Regina. Knight wondered if that lack of honorarium irked her. Bowing, but managing to hold her gaze—her eyes were brown, like the soil that nourished the moors in the spring—he took her hand and pressed a kiss to the delicate fingers, wishing no kidskin separated his lips from her skin. “Miss Leyland, it is indeed a pleasure.” Releasing his hold on her, he straightened and offered her the smallest of smiles.
She dipped into a graceful curtsy. “My lord, the pleasure is all mine.”
“I wonder, Miss Leyland, if you might have a waltz available?”
“The fourth, I believe.” She held up her wrist, from which, attached with white ribbons, her dance card and a minuscule pencil dangled. He hated those blasted pencils; they always made him feel like a clod when he tried to hold one with his gloved hands. Still, he managed to scrawl his name beside the fourth waltz.
When he was done, he gave her a nod. “I look forward to our time together.” He turned to go—
“Will you not write my name on your dance card?”
He winked. “I shan’t forget.”
Then he strode over to where King stood a short distance away.
“Did I just see you sign her dance card?” his friend asked, an edge of irritation in his tone.
“Yes, fourth waltz.”
Removing his own dance card from his jacket, King glowered. “That’s eight dances away. Need I remind you that we weren’t planning to stay long?”
“Since you won’t be needing that—” Knight plucked the card from his fingers. “Go on without me, and I’ll catch up with you later.”
“How will you manage such a feat? You’re unlikely to find a hansom around here.”
“I’ll walk back to London proper and secure one there. Or I’ll borrow someone else’s carriage. Don’t worry about me, old chap. I’ll make do.”
“I’m not going to abandon you here. What possessed you to ask for a dance?”
Knight shrugged. “I’ve always had a soft spot for brown eyes.”