One Night in London: James and Nicholas

Prologue

London, April 1818

In his brother’s study, gazing blankly at the window and the bustle of city street below, Robert Thorne decided that he did not want to get married.

He said it aloud: “I don’t want to get married.” The serene greyness of London shrugged back at him from the other side of thick glass; he winced from implacability and turned away. “I know I have to. I know. Don’t say it.”

Over at the side of the room, Anthony stopped examining book-spines to swing that discerning gaze Robert’s direction. “I said nothing. Perhaps you’re feeling guilty.” As usual, his eyes raked across Robert’s outpouring of emotion with no discernible reaction, too dark to easily read; also as usual, his posture remained flawless, thick black hair neatly brushed back, every tidy inch of him a reproof to Robert’s flailing.

“I could fire you,” Robert said, not seriously; he’d made the threat before. He wouldn’t carry it out, which he assumed Anthony knew.

Anthony Price had been his secretary for over a year now, and they were friends, of a sort. For a certain definition of friends. Anthony hadn’t been his choice, but his brother’s; James tended to believe that the viscount’s title gave him the right to manage not only the estate but everyone else’s lives as well. Robert, on the other hand, tended to believe that James had no right to interfere with the pursuit of pleasure.

The thought, as usual, made him feel guilty. James might be stern and officious and prone to ordering the world around; but James was also his brother. And had been through enough, a widower with two small children and an estate that never had recovered from generations of overspending and hapless mismanagement before that. James tried to control the world because anything else meant chaos; Robert understood as much.

He simply wished James hadn’t extended that philosophy to him.

A problem, he thought. Something else to be solved. To be managed. With an advantageous marriage, a requirement for family dinners, and a secretary to organize daily life. James had hired Anthony Price and Anthony’s miracle-worker reputation; James approved of Anthony’s tidiness. James did not approve of Robert.

Here, in his brother’s small but well-appointed study, in the once-fashionable but aging family townhouse, Robert considered scotch, longingly; he considered Anthony, also longingly. Pleasures, and forbidden. Not an option. Not now, and not ever; Anthony worked for the family, and that was that. Despite luscious lips and stern features and competent hands that caught every single one of Robert’s interests.

He’d meant the comment about firing Anthony as a joke. Unserious. Like himself. He’d never recall appointments or find his left boot without those dark eyes directing him. He knew.

Anthony kept Robert’s correspondence with everyone from boot-makers to booksellers to lovers in flawless order, handled their finances without comment, and always seemed to know where Robert had set down a flamboyantly entertaining Gothic novel or how to hire a new footman or when to quietly pour a glass of the good whiskey. Anthony had come with excellent recommendations and the ever-present ache of a cautionary tale; everyone knew the Price family had once had a fortune.

And now Anthony stood here. In Robert’s brother’s study, preparing to attend Robert’s own engagement ball, because Robert had asked. Because Robert needed at least one person on his side.

Because he wanted that person to be Anthony. He’d wanted that ever since the first day they’d met. Since Anthony Price had shaken his hand, firm as the core of the earth, and looked at him as if seeing right through him, and Robert’s pulse had jumped and danced under the press of those fingers.

Anthony’s expression had now gone even more immobile than usual. Not a good sign. “You could indeed request my dismissal. Technically I am employed by your brother, not you. But if you were unhappy with my work—”

“Oh, for—” He waved an arm in exasperation. “You know I didn’t mean that.”

“I know nothing of the sort.” Anthony touched the books again, evidently just because: gaze and fingertips trailing over leather, calfskin, gilt etching. “You could be rid of me tonight. If you desired.”

“I wouldn’t.” Robert took a step over his direction. “I was making a joke.”

Anthony just looked at him. Robert wanted to reach out, wanted to touch him; wanted to stick a hand down his own throat and pull out the boot that was so plainly lodged there; wanted to lurch back in time and take back his own words. He knew Anthony’s income depended on him. He did know.

And he felt about two feet tall. Emotions before words, as always. Not thinking. Unaware of consequence. Everything his brother thought he was, and worse.

Standing next to Anthony, he couldn’t’ve felt more the opposite of all that calm shadow-brown capability. Broad shoulders, big muscles from boxing lessons—Lord Westhaven had enjoyed the sport, and as they’d been lovers at the time, Robert had enjoyed it as well—and hair more gold than red and resolutely unruly, eyes more blue than green but sometimes both, shifting with moods and the light: he knew perfectly well how much he tended to overflow. Into space, into a room, into Society gossip. Messy and dramatic. Twenty-eight years old, and beside Anthony he ended up fourteen again and clumsy as hell.

He said, “Don’t worry, I won’t fire you. Even if you despise me.”

“I don’t despise you.”

“You dislike me.”

“I don’t.”

“You despair of me.”

Anthony’s mouth tugged itself into the faintest upward hint. “That one might be true.”

“There,” Robert said, with satisfaction. “You do smile.” He wanted to provoke more. He’d wanted that for nearly a year. And every time he tried—every time he thought he might be about to catch a glimpse behind that unshakable façade—

Those doors kept swinging shut. He thought Anthony liked him. He wanted Anthony to like him. He was afraid Anthony didn’t, and he wasn’t used to that. Disconcerting, not being liked. Not being liked by Anthony Price in particular.

He didn’t even know whether Anthony was interested in men. These days that sort of desire was, if not precisely the usual, certainly allowable, and even more so if such alliances came with some sort of advantage: money, property, a title. If one’s family already had an heir, then marriage between two men might be welcomed, under the right circumstances; it was not the most common, but not shameful. Robert, who liked to think he himself appreciated beauty in all forms, had enjoyed both men and women as lovers, though not as many as Society seemed to think. He would never have had the time, and also…

And also, he thought. That other reason. The reason he stood in his brother’s house, about to formally proclaim himself an engaged man, and begin preparations for the wedding.

His brother, of course, believed all the rumors. All the gossip. Every story about decadent orgies and naked rides through Hyde Park at dawn, even when that particular tale had begun as an offhanded joke told at a picnic. But then James always did believe the worst of him.

And James had given orders, in that no-nonsense head of the family tone, that Robert would indeed attend this ball, honor his engagement, and give young Mr. Dalton Irving his hand.

He said now, in the quiet book-lined space of his brother’s study, exactly where he’d run to hide, “What if I don’t?”

Anthony lifted eyebrows. “If you don’t…smile? Unusual for you, certainly, but hardly enough to end your betrothal.”

“You know what I mean.” He paced a step, swung arms, found himself trapped by a desk and unyielding evening-dress attire. He put up a hand to yank at his cravat, recalled too late that he did not have time to fix it, cringed at what he’d done. “What if I don’t get married?”

“What if you don’t?” Anthony put a slim volume of old-fashioned poetry back and came over. Skillful hands took over Robert’s cravat, swift and practiced. The heat of them brushed Robert’s throat, and somehow spread all the way through his body. To his toes. Other places. “Hold still.”

Robert did, though parts of him wished rather desperately for those hands to drift elsewhere. “I am holding still.”

“You’re not. Try harder.”

Robert nearly whimpered, at that. He did widen his eyes and give his secretary his best please say that again look, shameless about it.

“Don’t waste it on me,” Anthony said, more dry than fabled deserts in Robert’s favorite books of far-off travels. “Besides, isn’t Isabella Carissini awaiting you in your bedroom later?”

“I’ve sworn off opera singers,” Robert grumbled, deflated. “I’m getting married. Being responsible.” He wanted to yank at his cravat again. Couldn’t. Anthony’d fixed it for him. “We ended it on good terms last week. She’s amused by the whole idea of me settling down.”

Anthony’s hand hovered for just a second over Robert’s shoulder. “She doesn’t know you as well as you deserve, then.”

“What? What does that mean?” He pleaded, as Anthony took a step away, “Tell me. Or I’ll…what would I do? Make you polish the silver? Send you out to buy too many books to carry?”

“You do,” Anthony observed, “employ footmen. My lord…”

“No,” Robert said, more sharply than he’d meant to. But the world was coming apart, he was getting married, Anthony was being cryptic at him, and he couldn’t handle polite civility. “No. Robert, I said. Use my name. Please.”

“Robert.” In that voice, low and warm and smooth as cleanly poured chocolate, his name became a jewel, a steady anchor, a precious cargo. “I really shouldn’t. But…”

“But I’m asking,” Robert said. “And I can make you smile.”

“Robert…” Anthony shook his head this time, and the smile returned: not large, but wryly beckoning. “I meant that if she’s amused by the idea of you settling down…she can’t be seeing the you I know.”

“The what?” He looked himself up and down, half for effect. Still him: adored and adorable, teetering on the lower rungs of London’s gentry, vaguely and hopefully attractively rumpled even when theoretically polished. “What do you know about me? Is it good?”

Anthony sighed, but the sigh came laced with fondness. Robert hoped it did, anyway. “The Robert Thorne I know buys secondhand melodramatic sensation novels and loves memoirs about travel to places he’s never been. The Robert Thorne I know will sit and read stories to his niece and nephew for hours if they ask. And the Robert Thorne I know would never go back on his word regarding an engagement, not when it matters so much to the families involved. Because the Robert Thorne I know is a good man.”

Their eyes met across air, blue-green and midnight-dark. Robert, caught up in sudden coal-hot intensity, forgot to breathe.

Anthony added, softly, “And he’ll go down and greet his guests, tonight. Without an opera singer waiting in the wings, because you don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I don’t,” Robert blurted out. “I don’t—but I don’t want to—I don’t even know him—”

“From everything I’ve been able to discover, young Mr. Irving is also a good man.” Anthony drew a breath, kept smiling. Something about the smile seemed different, though Robert couldn’t figure out why. “He’s been very sheltered and he’s very inexperienced, but he’s clever and kindhearted, from all reports. And of course there’s the fortune.”

The fortune. That damnable fortune. That awful necessary fortune.

The rattle and shout of carriages, of horse-hoofs, of street-sounds, threw a specter of the future into the night. Downstairs the guests would be waiting. Robert and Anthony would be late. They already were.

And James would be scowling. Mr. and Mrs. Irving would be tense, awaiting the formal presentation and announcement on behalf of their son—their only son, Robert recalled all over again, even more guiltily. Dalton Irving was the younger son, or had been. William Irving had been the older brother. Lost to scarlet fever a few years back. Terrible, of course.

The Thornes weren’t outright impoverished—and he looked at Anthony and felt the thought like an arrow-bite, cold and cruel—but they weren’t wealthy, either: enough to remain welcome in Society, but barely more than comfortable. And money mattered; it always did. He had to look away from Anthony this time.

James, as the viscount, held the title; James had married not precisely for love but out of friendship, Robert knew, and out of a need for heirs. Maria Herron had not brought much of a dowry but had brought warmth, good cheer, a sense of duty to the title and the production of children, and sparkling friendliness; her death had left silence and an aching hole in their house. James had not married again; Robert genuinely wasn’t sure whether James merely preferred not to return to the state of marriage, or whether his brother had fallen more deeply in love with his wife than Robert had ever seen, or whether the reason was something else altogether.

The romantic story was the one Society assumed to be true, and the tragic love and loss of Viscount Thorne’s bride tended to prompt coos and sighs and romantically turned heads in ballrooms. James remained handsome, not too old, and eligible, after all.

Robert had not asked about his brother’s emotions. They did not have that sort of relationship. They might’ve once, as boys. If so, that had also vanished. Gone away into silences and stumblings and a lack of anything much in common.

He’d tried once, in the months after Maria’s death. He’d fumbled out something about caring and being present and possibly sharing imported brandy. He’d had a sip or two—only that, he’d’ve sworn if asked—before venturing into his brother’s library. James had looked at him and said, simply, “No.” They’d never spoken of anything intimate since.

Robert did adore his niece and nephew, and bought them books and toys he couldn’t quite afford, and happily listened to them chatter about their studies and their interests and their tutor, who was in fact poor Maria’s brother Nicholas. Nicholas had more or less moved into James’s household in the wake of the loss, a clever scholarly managing presence who knew how to console children and who did not seem to irritate James.

Nicholas, Robert considered, did a better job of not irritating James than he himself did. More a part of the family. More like someone James could approve of.

He and James had not quarreled as such, had not publicly nor privately fought. They got on well enough, he guessed, the more so the less they spoke. He did love his brother; he supposed James loved him in turn, though these days the only emotion present seemed to be disapproval.

At least, he reflected, he could do this one thing right. He could honor the arrangement James had negotiated. He could bring Dalton Irving’s fortune to his family. He could give the Irvings marriage into a titled family in turn.

He could do all that. It wouldn’t hurt. He’d been expecting to do it, after all.

He straightened shoulders. He did not think of the warmth of Anthony’s hands fixing his cravat, or the odd blossoming pride in his chest when he’d managed to tease those dark eyes into a smile. Or the way he’d felt when Anthony’d called him a good man: as if, for a moment, he could be.

So he would. He held out an arm, a playful invitation. “Come face my doom with me, then.”

Anthony did not take his arm. Of course not; they weren’t courting, and Robert was engaged. “Dalton Irving is hardly your doom. But yes, by all means, let’s not be even more late to your future.”

Robert swept the arm out, a fatalistic gesture. “To the future!”

Anthony sighed aloud, and started walking. Robert found that annoying his secretary into a reaction could still make him grin, even if the grin hurt a bit; and ran to catch up. They ended up matching steps, down the hall: his own fashionable style, colored waistcoat and newfangled cut, alongside Anthony’s plain black. Anthony, Robert decided, could pull off plain black and make it look like the height of style.

They entered the ballroom. Light blazed up, triumphant and dazzling; crystal glittered and whirled. Gowns and waistcoats, muslin and lace, taffeta and silk, jewels and pins, caught and flung back fragments of the world; musicians played a vigorous Scotch reel, and scones and chocolate éclairs and lemon tarts regarded their lateness with indulgence from the refreshment table. Robert resisted the impulse to turn and run. So many eyes. Such expectance.

Anthony unobtrusively set a hand at the small of his back. A touch. A reminder. Robert leaned on the touch as much as he dared, even after it went away, and put on his best charming smile.

He bowed over hands. He smiled at young ladies and pale hopeful young men and beribboned dowagers. James had invited anyone who was anyone; the heart of London would witness the Honorable Mr. Robert Thorne’s public acknowledgement of betrothal to Mr. Dalton Irving tonight.

He took a deep breath. He even made a joke or two: yes, he knew how many hearts he was breaking; yes, he’d give them all one last dance if he could; perhaps he could satisfy at least one desire with a chocolate éclair? Anthony remained noncommittal at his back, rigidly refraining from remarks upon the flirting.

He noticed Nicholas, off to his right, bowing and agreeing to dance with Lady Rosamond Leigh. Lady Rosamond, now in her second Season and as lovely as ever, vibrant and voluptuous, put on a smile that seemed genuine enough; but it was the smile of a friend, if Robert was any judge. Nicholas was good-looking, all dark hair and blue eyes and intimidating height, and they were very pretty together, and it wouldn’t be a bad match, in theory.

Robert, who knew perfectly well that Lady Rosamond preferred the company of women, felt a pulse of sympathy for Nicholas. Rosie’s mother had the determination of a whole company of soldiers, and would stop at nothing to see her daughter make a brilliant catch. Nicholas would certainly qualify as acceptably wealthy, but the older Lady Leigh kept glaring at her daughter and jerking her head violently to the left, toward more titled prey. Rosie smiled at her mother, and then deliberately smiled at Nicholas, hand upon his arm; she allowed him to lead her to the set.

Nicholas, Robert decided, ought to be careful. Rosie was sweet enough, but her mother was terrifying.

He also glanced to the left. Lady Leigh kept gesturing that way, and he couldn’t help it. And then he stifled a sigh, because he should’ve known.

The target of all the glancing was twofold, and involved his brother. James was speaking to the Duke of Wellingham, who had rather astonishingly made an appearance in polite Society. Astonishing to others, that was; Robert grinned and offered a tip of his head that direction. James and Edward had been friends since their school days at Eton; Robert, being the younger brother, had not ever heard the entirety of the story, but had gathered that it had something to do with James’s overly developed sense of chivalry, some unspecified form of bullying between boys, and Edward’s unbreakable loyalty from then on.

A duke was not a bad friend to have, and Wellingham’s presence had all but guaranteed this ball would be a ravishing success; Edward might have little patience for people in general, but he’d gifted them with his attendance, and that meant a great deal.

Unfortunately, at the moment it also meant that Robert’s own brother noticed him. And began purposefully striding their way with all the subtlety of a runaway carriage. Robert spared a second of pity for any unsuspecting debutante in thin slippers.

James landed at his side with a metaphorical thud, and crossed arms. Robert eyed the trail of dazed ballroom guests and murmured, “You nearly bowled a perfect game, there…”

“What,” demanded his brother bewilderedly, “are you talking about? Never mind. You’re late. Come with me.”

The Thorne siblings had always looked generally alike, though James had greater certainty in piercing green eye color, sturdy stance, and viscount’s confidence. His brother, Robert considered, could be a lever used to move the world, if the world needed moving.

James glared. “You’re not moving.”

Robert, startled at the mirror of thoughts, blinked at his only sibling. “Yes, right…sorry…”

“Who tied your cravat? Decently neat for once.” James hauled him efficiently through the crush. Found a knot of anxious Irvings, all thin and nervous and dressed precisely the way that newly acquired status tended to, overdone and worried about it. They’d made their fortune in investments, and good ones, involving mining rights and mineral deposits; the family had come from trade, though, and the older brother had been in training to become a barrister or something of the sort, Robert recalled. No lavishly purchased estate or filigreed carriage or ostentatious new Mayfair townhome could quite take away that tarnish in the eyes of the most haughty.

They all looked rather alike, pale and brown-haired and trying hard to belong. Robert searched for his intended. Nearly missed the young man, who seemed to be attempting to hide behind his parents. Not a good start.

He held out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Mr. Irving.”

Mr. Dalton Irving gazed at the hand, and got even more speechless. He was pretty, inarguably so: delicate and attractive, with dark softly tumbled hair and big honey-brown eyes. Long eyelashes trembled at Robert like a fawn trapped in a hunter’s sights.

“I promise,” Robert attempted jovially, “I don’t bite. Unless you’d like that sort of thing.”

Mr. Irving’s eyes got even wider. Robert hadn’t thought that’d be possible.

They’d met precisely twice before. The first time, Dalton had been quite young—only eighteen—and clearly still in mourning for his brother, even if the official mourning period had ended; Robert had decided to consider his intended’s lack of conversational skills a result of circumstance. He’d agreed to give Dalton time, and then, very properly—as instructed by James—he’d called at the house. Dalton had watched him with much the same expression as a man facing a tiger, with no knowledge of how to escape.

“We’re so very pleased,” twittered Dalton’s mother. “Aren’t we, Dalton?”

Dalton managed to nod. Robert began to wonder whether his fiancé would survive a wedding night. The boy might perish from sheer nerves.

He waved an olive branch of, “Have you had the éclairs? They’re quite good. Chocolate. Utterly decadent. James spared no expense for the night. And I do like chocolate, don’t you?”

Dalton peeked over at the refreshment table and continued to say nothing. Robert stifled a sigh.

He was attempting to think of some other topic of conversation when his fiancé at last managed, “I’ve…never had chocolate.”

Robert’s mouth blurted out, “Really?” before his brain caught up. The Irving parents were regarding him as if he might be the living embodiment of corruption. And Dalton Irving had been…well, very sheltered, he recalled Anthony saying, mostly because he recalled Anthony’s voice. Chocolate was probably a suspiciously decadent indulgence.

Robert liked decadent indulgences. Unfortunately, he hadn’t got round to half of what Society seemed to think he had. Lots of flirtation, lots of willing partners, but not a lot of money to spare.

Anyway, Anthony wouldn’t approve. Neither would his brother.

He’d thought about Anthony first, in that sequence. He didn’t even know why.

He tried not to think about that. He tried to be a gentleman. He needed to be. He said, hopefully gently, “Would you like some? I can introduce you to an éclair. Maybe even two.”

His fiancé considered this wording. “That…that wouldn’t be a euphemism, would it, Mr. Thorne?”

Robert, who honestly hadn’t meant any innuendo this time, actually paused in surprise. Perhaps Dalton Irving did know how to talk.

Anthony, at his shoulder, said smoothly, “Not at all. Mr. Thorne was offering refreshments, if anyone might be interested.” Anthony knew about polite conversation. Anthony was clearly trying to steer the discussion away from euphemisms about introducing decadence and back into ballroom-appropriate waters. Because they all had agreed that Robert would go through with this marriage.

James was regarding Anthony with some gratitude for the civilizing influence. Robert gritted teeth.

Mr. Dalton Irving got quiet again.

Mrs. Irving chattered, words like pearls dropping on glass, “Of course you’ll be married by special license—we’re certain you won’t want to wait, having waited so long already—Dalton will be twenty-one in precisely three weeks, so you can be wed just as soon as he’s properly of age—”

Dancers spun and came together and separated like water at his back: a ribbon, a weaving on a loom, a pattern. Fate, right here in this ballroom. Where Robert should no doubt ask his fiancé to join the tapestry. James was staring at him as if attempting to shove him forward by sheer force of will.

He needed air. He needed to breathe. He needed to rip off this cravat, which Anthony had tied for him, and to never look so many expectations in the face again—

He took a step back. His brother took a step forward.

Robert inched back again, collided with a thin red-haired young woman in white—Miss Elizabeth Thorne, he vaguely recalled, one of the distant family cousins, here because James really had invited everyone—and saw punch splash from her glass onto the folds of her skirt. She gasped; he got out, “My apologies—” and bolted.

He couldn’t go far. James’s ballroom wasn’t large, and the crush of people had filled it to capacity. He avoided matrons and Society gossips and fashionable young rakes, several of whom he’d seen under much more naked circumstances, who tried to ask whether he was quite well. Lady Rosamond, he noticed, had come over to help Miss Elizabeth with her dress.

He found a gap in the crowd beside a window and a large potted fern. He tried to breathe in, to breathe out. His head throbbed.

The fern offered leafy green condolences, but couldn’t do anything much more practical. Robert tugged at his cravat.

He wanted to peel off his stifling jacket and waistcoat. He wanted to run. He wanted to see the world, to touch the waters of the Mediterranean, to see the sands of Africa, to walk through the ruins of Greece—he wanted to find everyplace he’d only read about in books, a world full of life and color and vibrancy—

He wanted everything he could not have, and would never have. Because he would be married to a boy barely of age, a pretty young man who’d never known any of those things either, and who looked at him as if Robert might devour him whole, while Robert’s skin remembered the brush of Anthony’s fingers—

Another mark in the column of everything he’d never have. His secretary. A man who depended on him. Who dismissed any flirtation with unruffled equanimity.

The music swelled, crashed, spun into another tune. Anthony, summoned by Robert’s thoughts, materialized. His eyes wore more concern than Robert had ever seen, dark and protective. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Robert said bleakly. “But that doesn’t matter to you.”

Anthony’s eyebrows drew together. “Robert, if you’re unhappy, I—”

James arrived. Naturally. A pugnacious whirlwind of temper scowled at a younger brother’s transgression. “Explain yourself. Now.”

Robert scowled right back. “There’s nothing to explain.”

“That was beyond impolite—”

“Awkward, but hardly—”

“You are,” James said over him, “embarrassing yourself. And this family.”

“I’m embarrassing you,” Robert said. It was true. “The match you arranged—the fortune we’re hunting—your evening, your announcement. Not mine.”

“You’re a Thorne,” James snapped. “Kindly act like one. That boy expects to marry you.”

“That boy,” Robert retorted, “expects to marry into a viscount’s family. He doesn’t give a damn about me. You could marry him.”

James’s face went white. Robert instantly regretted the words, and couldn’t take them back.

Anthony visibly winced on James’s behalf. Even the fern rustled leaves in betrayal.

His brother said, low and angry, “You know I cannot—”

“No. I don’t. Because you won’t talk to me. Because you don’t tell me anything.”

“As the head of this family—”

“You never even asked whether I wanted to get married!” His voice had risen. Drawing attention. He saw the disaster happening. Couldn’t stop the slow-motion carriage-crash. “You never gave me a choice!”

“You had choices!” James was more angry now. “You chose. You chose to spend your days doing God knows what, with God knows who—staying out at gambling hells, going through lover after lover as soon as you grew bored—if I hadn’t chosen for you, where would you be—”

“Not here! Did you ever ask what I want?”

James’s eyes narrowed. “And what do you want, Robert?”

“I don’t know!” He didn’t. He didn’t know anything. He just knew—“But I don’t want to get married in three weeks, and I don’t want to be married to a boy right out of a schoolroom who can barely string two sentences together and knows nothing about the world, and I don’t want to marry Mr. Dalton Irving!”

Silence hit the way cannon-thunder did, across a battlefield. Shots fired. Men wounded.

No one even gasped, but Robert saw Anthony’s eyes flick past his shoulder, and fill with comprehension.

He turned, already knowing what he’d see. “Mr. Irving—”

Mr. Dalton Irving, who’d obviously been pushed Robert’s direction by nervous parents, stood directly behind him. Face even paler than before. Eyes huge and injured. Hit by the gunfire of Robert’s words.

Robert, horrified, tripped over sounds, sentences, syllables. “Mr. Irving, I—perhaps we could—if we could speak in private—”

He hadn’t meant the words. Or he had. But not like that. Not to hurt. Truly.

He did not know how to explain.

Mr. Irving actually lifted that chin, despite shaking like a leaf, and managed, “I don’t believe I have anything to say to you at the moment, sir.” Robert discovered that perhaps his fiancé did have some admirable courage after all, even if the bravery was rather undercut by the fact that Dalton then promptly turned on a heel and fled.

Right out of the ballroom. On the wings of that speech. Which everyone had heard.

All eyes swung to Robert. The gossip raced. From person to person, growing and spreading, a susurration that’d be a scandal in no time at all: did you hear what Mr. Thorne said about his fiancé at his own engagement ball, can you imagine, what will the viscount do, what will happen to the betrothal now…

James’s face burned hot with fury. The Irving parents had become horrified gemstone-encrusted statues. Nicholas Herron, who for some reason had followed James, propped a shoulder against a wall and regarded the catastrophe with cool sarcastic eyes; the Duke of Wellingham appeared to be silently disapproving of the entire situation, probably because Edward despised scandal and cruelty. Lady Rosamond and Miss Elizabeth had reappeared and were clutching each other’s hands in astonishment.

Anthony’s gaze, resting on Robert, held disappointment, hot and dark and as expected; but some other emotion lay in all that deep shadowy velvet too, something more akin to sympathy than Robert might’ve guessed. And it was Anthony who said quietly, “I think we’ll retire from the ball for the moment, James.”

His brother blew out a short sharp breath, but nodded. Robert couldn’t process that either. Since when were his secretary and his brother on a first-name basis?

Anthony said, “You’ll be able to salvage this if you’re careful. Everyone knows they don’t know each other well, and misunderstandings happen, and perhaps some time to court, to get to know each other, would be in order before the wedding…” His voice was soothing, precise, finding solutions.

“Yes,” James said. “Yes. Get him—” This came with a head-jerk at Robert. “—out of here.”

Anthony nodded, put a proprietary hand under Robert’s elbow, and steered him away. Out of the ballroom. Out of the disaster he’d just made of their lives, their future—Dalton Irving’s life and future—the Thorne family’s hope for financial comfort, settlements for his niece and nephew—

What had he done?

He said that aloud too: “What have I done?”

“We’ll find out,” Anthony said, as they stepped out into the hall, “soon enough. For now…back to the study, I think. For the moment. We’ll find a way to handle this.”

The carpet—expensive several years ago, but worn in spots—muffled their footsteps. Ancestral Thorne family portraits glowered from imposing walls around them. They, and their gilded frames, did not approve of Robert’s failures. More guilt piling on. Or gilt.

He shouldn’t make puns at the moment. Not even in his own head. Not the time. One more failure. “Can you? Handle this?”

“We’ll certainly try.”

“But—”

“Quiet,” Anthony said, not angry but infinitely patient and commandingly firm; Robert subsided, chastised.

He did not know what came next. The evening had spun wide open, wildly out of control; Society would be aflame with news by now. The scandal of Viscount Thorne’s ball. The sudden delicious shock of upheaval, rejection, remorse. The consequences, because there would be consequences, of this night.

Just one night, he thought. Just one outburst, one snap of frustration, one damn night. And it had changed all their lives. Whatever came next, all their futures wouldn’t be the same.