One Night in London

Prologue-2

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.