Page 59 of A Stranger’s Promise

The afternoon passed first in a series of card games, but exactly who won or lost, Alistair couldn’t say. He sat in the Blue Drawing Room, pretending to listen to a pianoforte performance by the talented Lady Crenshaw, but his thoughts were on the laughing hazel eyes of a lass who could swear like a sailor.

Dinner arrived, a parade of soups, jellies, creams, good hams from Yorkshire, casseroles, roasts, puddings, cheeses, lemon ice, rose soufflé cakes on elevated stands, wine, claret, whisky—and much more. He couldn’t recall tasting even one bite.

With dinner over, the guests filtered into the spacious ballroom with its polished floor, brocade and gold taffeta draped windows, and its pale blue walls trimmed with gilded frieze. Full-sized oil paintings depicting various Cassilis earls hung between heavy mirrors in ornate gilded frames. Venetian cut-glass and silver chandeliers hung from the painted ceilings, the room brilliant with thousands of glistening candles reflecting in the mirrors like stars. Footmen bearing silver trays passed among the guests as couples stepped onto the dance floor and began to swirl around the room in a blur of sparkling jewels and color.

The musicians played.

The dancers danced.

Alistair left the ballroom and wandered the corridors, hungry for any sign of Charlotte among the guests who milled in those areas, but found none.

The hour grew late.

His despair increased with each passing moment. Charlotte would refuse him. He knew that now. She would let society dictate her happiness. Did she not think him worth the effort? Perhaps, he should have tracked her down. But he knew that was wrong. Any answer she gave under duress would not come from her heart. Worse, if he pushed her away… He couldn’t bear the thought. What if she’d left in an effort to escape his attentions? He strode down the hallway toward the front entrance. Turning a corner, he slowed his step. God help him, guests had gathered in the foyer. One man even stood on the lowest step of the grand staircase and leaned a hip against the banister.

Alistair’s heart pounded. He turned back the way he’d come and started—

A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. Alistair whirled.

Nicholas’ hand fell away. Eyes sparking with dry amusement, he said, “Why the long face?”

The man knew right well enough. Alistair turned, but the baronet grabbed his shoulder again.

“Nicholas,” Alistair snarled.

His friend’s grip tightened and he spun Alistair around and chuckled into his ear, “There is your answer, my friend.” He nodded in the direction of the oval grand staircase.

Alistair froze. Charlotte descended the stairs, a vision in a high-waisted gown of crimson silk, enriched with a fine needlework display of glittering silver and seed pearls. Long gloves encased her slender arms, rising within an inch of her sheer cap sleeves trimmed with rosettes. Already, the rebellious curls he loved so much had escaped the gold band in her hair and twined around the base of her slender neck.

The soft, sensuous folds of her skirt and the hint of cleavage revealed by her scooped neckline drew his gaze an instant before she reached the landing and he locked his gaze with hers.