“I don’t need my cheeks pinched, Adelia. It is only all the smell of pomade in the air which makes me a bit ill. Reminds me unpleasantly of Cupps-Foster.” Marissa hadn’t cared much for her last husband, who had worn an excessive amount of pomade and whose breath had always carried the scent of peppermints and gin. Thankfully the marriage, like her first two, had been short-lived.
“I think you were listening.” Adelia leaned over until one of her earrings nearly batted Marissa in the eye. “To the conversation behind you.”
Marissa put a finger to her lips, quieting her friend and nodding. They both stayed perfectly still for a moment longer, but the two women’s conversation had turned to the disparagement of Lord Talbot’s waistcoat before the rustling of skirts met her ears and the women moved away.
“Germania Woodstock and Rowena Helmsworth. Two gossiping ninnies on the search for new lovers to ease their boredom with their husbands. They’ve gone to circle the refreshment tables and cast their nets elsewhere.” Adelia looked at someone over Marissa’s shoulder. “What had you so captivated, darling? Surely it wasn’t Talbot’s choice of clothing.”
“I thought I overheard something of interest, but I was mistaken.” The last thing she wished to discuss with Adelia was Haddon. Her friend would latch on to the fact that Haddon was not only attractive, but younger and speculate as to how Marissa had managed to meet such a gentleman. She’d ask endless questions, none of which Marissa wished to answer.
I’ve only just managed to put thoughts of Haddon aside.
Not completely, but—
“You’re frowning.” Adelia snapped her fan against Marissa’s wrist. “Women our age can’t afford the wrinkles so stop this instant.” She nodded toward Marissa’s dark hair swept up into an elegant chignon. “At least you took my advice. Your maid did an excellent job.”
“She did. The apothecary mixed exactly the correct shade, as you said he would.” Adelia had suggested to Marissa several weeks ago, when she was bemoaning the gray in her hair, to seek out a small shop tucked away in an alley just on the other side of Bond Street. Mr. Coventry’s apothecary specialized in lotions, dyes and other tricks to assist in the illusion of youth or prohibit an unwanted pregnancy.
At least I’m in no need of those services. There were times Marissa bemoaned the fact she could no longer have a child. It reminded her unpleasantly of her age.
“I don’t know what I’d do without Mr. Coventry. The man is a treasure.” Adelia espoused the virtues of the apothecary.
Marissa eyed Adelia’s mass of auburn hair. She’d never seen a spot of gray. Her friend must spend a small fortune at Mr. Coventry’s shop.
“Dear Lord, who is that?” Adelia stopped waving her fan, her eyes stuck on the far corner of the ballroom. “My God, look at those cheekbones.” She made a low purr. “He has the look of a Viking or some other delicious. . .marauder.”
“How would you even know what a Viking looks like? And they were rather barbarous, Adelia. Burning down convents can hardly be considered seductive.”
Adelia shrugged. “Allow me my fun, Marissa. Not all of us are determined to become dull matrons. Especially when there are gentlemen like him floating about. My, he looks very capable, doesn’t he?”
Marissa turned slowly, knowing the moment Adelia had extolled the virtues of his cheekbones it would be Haddon she’d see.
She was right. He did have the look of a bloody Viking, standing against the far wall with his arms crossed, his powerfully masculine form a contrast to the dandified gentlemen surrounding him. Spectacularly dressed in dark evening wear, expensively cut and tailored to fit him like a second skin, Haddon was drawing every feminine eye in the Cambourne ballroom.
And why would he not? Marissa took in the stretch of his coat across his broad shoulders, admiring the flex of muscles beneath the fabric. Haddon needed no padding, as some gentlemen were wont to use, in order to cut such a fine form. Marissa had traced the lines of all that beautiful sinew with her own fingertips and could testify to the fact.
A delicate shiver tickled her skin.
Marissa had been on the receiving end of Haddon’s attentions, and despite her determination to put him from her mind, relived every second with pathetic regularity. It was really rather sad. She hadn’t taken a lover since returning from her visit to the Peak District. Not since Haddon.
He looks smashing.
They hadn’t spoken since that fateful day at Brushbriar, when Brendan had stormed into her room and informed her his father had been murdered by their hosts. Marissa had fled the estate after dressing, barely pausing to inform Brushbriar’s startled butler she’d send for her things. The news of Reggie, the absolute rage filling Marissa at the duplicity of John and Lydia, had managed to blot out everything else.
Even Haddon.
She’d felt guilt over not speaking to him again, not even to tell him goodbye. But at the time, Marissa hadn’t been capable of coherent thought. He’d written her, asking to call. But she’d ignored his letters, telling herself it was best they not continue their relationship.
It was not a relationship. It was a dalliance.
Marissa had only stayed in the Peak District long enough to arrange a quiet burial for Reggie. The tears she’d cried as he was laid to rest were full of more anger than grief. Her husband had been killed by his best friend. Not a unique tragedy, she supposed, but one she intended to avenge. She’d left as soon as Brendan had wed Petra.
Her eyes strayed to the angelic-looking young lady hovering at Haddon’s elbow, adoration shining from her pretty features as she gazed up at him.
Lady Christina Sykes, daughter of the Marquess of Stanton. Lady Christina was speaking to Haddon, her hands fluttering delicately as
