Everything, that was, except him. She turned and gave him a quizzical look. Evan had returned to England nearly fourteen months ago when his father had passed away.
Foolish, that; enough time had elapsed that everything must have changed. She chattered on, oblivious to his unease. I must put my foot down: the great explorer will enjoy himself. Diana patted his arm, no doubt intending her touch to be bracing. When last you were here, you dominated society.
I wish you would act like it. Not comforting, the unquiet memories that brought to the surface. Evan looked out over the group. A large house party; but even with the addition of a few souls from the neighborhood, it was still a small ball. Of the nine or ten couples, only a handful were dancing. The rest were clustered in a loose knot on the edge of the room, punch glasses in hand.
His jokes had been the funniest—or at least, they had made everyone laugh the loudest. Diana pulled his arm. He frowned. He could only make out a few faces.
I thought you were friends. But Lady Elaine Warren…she was the reason he had left England. His breath caught on a mix of hope and furious shame, and just as he had all those years ago, he found himself scanning the women for her, searching faces.
She made herself easy to overlook. Her arms were drawn tightly about her waist, as if she could squeeze herself into insignificance. Her gown, a pink so anemic it might have been white, left her muted in the crowd of bright colors.
Even the pale color of her hair, twisted into an indifferent chignon, seemed to declare her inconsequential. It was only his own memory that made her stand out. He kept his voice calm. Who did she end up marrying? He looked at his cousin.
When she had come out at seventeen, she had attracted attention, her body mature beyond her age. He had noticed. It had made him think that she held nothing back, that life was ahead of her and she planned to enjoy it.
Her laugh had always put him in mind of activities that were decidedly improper. But he felt the truth with a cold, sick certainty. He could see it in her wary glance, darting to either side. Diana watched him expectantly. But she misunderstood the martial set to his jaw, because instead of looking worried, a sly, pleased smile spread across her lips. This is going to be just like old times. Lady Elaine Warren scanned the walls of the ballroom.
Choosing the place where she would spend the evening was always an exercise in delicacy and balance. It had grown easier over the years, as the leaders of fashion had found new, more interesting pastimes than making fun of her. She had a few friends, now—real ones. She might go entire evenings at a time without having to school her face to a pleasant, stupid blankness. All she had to do was choose her company wisely.
None of her closest friends had come, but her remaining tormenters were absent. Her mother had wanted to attend to pass the time while her father was off overseeing his estates. The details are utterly exquisite. Her mother, Lady Stockhurst, looked puzzled and then peered at the wall.
Like Elaine, Lady Stockhurst was tall and blond. Like Elaine, her mother was well-endowed, corsets barely containing her ample curves. Like Elaine, her mother was not respected at all. If they pretended they were more interested in the walls than the dancing, there could be no disappointment. Elaine stilled, not turning. But she knew that voice. It was Lady Cosgrove—one of the women who still took delight in needling Elaine.
I must have forgotten. Do you recommend a particular app? You could email the PDF directly to the person and they could then upload to Kindle or Nook or whatever platform right there.
Not sure what you mean by that. Skip to content Every year RWA has a signing at their national conference. Step One: I will have QR codes for my novella at my signing station. See you soon! Of the nine or ten couples, only a handful were dancing.
The rest were clustered in a loose knot on the edge of the room, punch glasses in hand. The evening was young; only Evan felt aged. His jokes had been the funniest—or at least, they had made everyone laugh the loudest. Almost everyone. Evan shook his head. He had utterly hated himself. Diana pulled his arm. He could only make out a few faces. I thought you were friends. But Lady Elaine Warren…she was the reason he had left England. His breath caught on a mix of hope and furious shame, and just as he had all those years ago, he found himself scanning the women for her, searching faces.
She made herself easy to overlook. Her arms were drawn tightly about her waist, as if she could squeeze herself into insignificance.
Her gown, a pink so anemic it might have been white, left her muted in the crowd of bright colors. Even the pale color of her hair, twisted into an indifferent chignon, seemed to declare her inconsequential. It was only his own memory that made her stand out. He kept his voice calm. Who did she end up marrying? Who would wed a girl who laughs like a horse? When she had come out at seventeen, she had attracted attention, her body mature beyond her age.
He had noticed. It had made him think that she held nothing back, that life was ahead of her and she planned to enjoy it. Her laugh had always put him in mind of activities that were decidedly improper. But he felt the truth with a cold, sick certainty. He could see it in her wary glance, darting to either side. Diana watched him expectantly. This is going to be just like old times. Choosing the place where she would spend the evening was always an exercise in delicacy and balance.
It had grown easier over the years, as the leaders of fashion had found new, more interesting pastimes than making fun of her. She had a few friends, now—real ones. She might go entire evenings at a time without having to school her face to a pleasant, stupid blankness.
All she had to do was choose her company wisely. None of her closest friends had come, but her remaining tormenters were absent. Her mother had wanted to attend to pass the time while her father was off overseeing his estates. The details are utterly exquisite.
Like Elaine, Lady Stockhurst was tall and blond. Like Elaine, her mother was well-endowed, corsets barely containing her ample curves. Like Elaine, her mother was not respected at all. If they pretended they were more interested in the walls than the dancing, there could be no disappointment. But she knew that voice. It was Lady Cosgrove—one of the women who still took delight in needling Elaine.
She leaned in to her mother. I must have forgotten. Or maybe I never knew?
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