Never Dance with a Marquess (The Never Series Book 2) Maggi Andersen (best short novels of all time TXT) 📖

she questioned those accepted norms of society, which should bear some criticism. He had to admit when fired up, she was most appealing. Gazing into her wide, beautiful eyes, he lost his train of thought, and his arguments lacked conviction. His supposedly clear vision for her future seemed to fray at the edges.

He’d handled things poorly, he admitted, and would hate to be on bad terms with her. Best he leave London. Gwen would keep him advised of any important decisions he needed to make. God only knew what those two children were getting up to at Elm Park. He feared it would be something beyond Miss Scotsdale’s ability to handle. Nicholas had asked Warren to observe them and prevent anything untoward. But could his secretary make a young baron puffed up by his own consequence, obey him?

Deep in thought, Nicholas frowned at the footman who took his hat and cane. The man’s eyes widened.

“Good man,” Nicholas said absently and gathered up today’s post from the salver on the hall table. He made his way to the library and, seated at his desk, flicked through them. The usual bills he would pass on for payment and a busy Season of invitations, which he would decline, except for this evening’s soiree at Carlton House.

A scented letter caught his attention. It was from Lillian Burrell, whose elegant script invited him to a late supper at her home in Albemarle Street. Nicholas stared out of the window where the broad leaves of a plane tree stirred in the breeze. Should he accept? In dire need of some feminine company, her warmth and amusing conversation would clear his head of unwanted thoughts. And she was a charming woman, a wonderful distraction who would not attempt to hold him on a tight rein. He penned an acceptance before he changed his mind and handed it to a footman. Then sat back and contemplated the evening ahead. He kept abreast of parliamentary matters, although parliament didn’t sit until June. But he was sadly deficient in Court news. Prinny would no doubt supply it while taking him to task for his lengthy absence.

Nicholas rose early the next day and rode with Charles, to wash away the cobwebs clinging to him after a dull evening. Apart from the latest endits, and a discussion of the surprising novel, Frankenstein, written by an anonymous author, the rest was forgettable. The diplomats talked of little but the Treaty of Mundosier, which served to bring the Indian states of Indore and Rajput under British rule. As Nicholas prepared to leave for his engagement with Lillian, the regent requested his company. He was in a talkative mood and kept Nicholas late into the night.

He had left His Highness as soon as he decently could. But it was in the early hours when he stood outside Lillian’s townhouse, and only a few candles flickered through the windows. She would have gone to bed. He would send a note with his apologies stating something had detained him. Another time, perhaps. He hoped it would appease her, although Lillian would view it as a lack of passion on his part and rightly draw her ire.

The next morning, he rode in Hyde Park again with Charles.

“You were caught up with Prinny when I left,” Charles observed as they guided their horses away from Rotten Row to ride over the fields to the lake. “Did I miss anything of import?”

“No. Dreary affair, wasn’t it?”

“George still mourns his daughter and grandchild.”

“I expect some women will still dress in black crepe this Season.”

“I imagine so. The prince has grown quite stout. He is not keen to ride, and he always loved it.”

“Yes. He does not travel well but plans to return soon to the Royal Pavilion.”

“They have some contraption there to assist him onto horseback.”

“That would be worth seeing,” Nicholas observed with a faint chuckle.

“Prinny appeared brighter when he spoke of helping the Literature Fund. A good year already for literature with the publication of Keats’s Endymion.”

“Ah yes. Have you read it?”

“No. I don’t believe I will. You?”

“Yes. Based on the Greek myth, Keats waxes lyrical about a shepherd’s love for the moon goddess. A rather incoherent poetic romance.”

“Nellie saw the poem performed at some literary soiree and gave it her seal of approval. Women love the Romantics. It has come under some criticism, however.”

“Carrie adores Keats’s poems. This one aroused a heated argument between us in the coach on the way here.”

“Heated, eh?” Charles observed him for a moment. “By the way, Nellie has offered her assistance at the ball tonight. She already has two suitors in mind for Caroline.”

Nicholas tensed. “Who might they be?”

Charles told him.

“Lord Sheen might own a good part of England, but he’s a pompous ass. Why Utley?”

“Hails from Yorkshire,” Charles said. “Nellie thought Carrie would like him.”

“Don’t care for either of ’em.”

Charles cast him an amused glance. “You sound like a father, or rather…” He broke off. “Looks like rain. Shall we ride on?”

***

Last night, the soiree had been a small and intimate party, as Gwen had prophesied. Her friends were warm and genuinely curious to learn more about Carrie. It gave her confidence when, on the evening of the ball, she stood before the long mirror putting on pearl earrings which belonged to her mother.

“You look beautiful, Miss Carrie,” Anna said, giving Carrie’s short-capped sleeve a last tug.

“She does.” Gwen, in wine-colored silk and emeralds, stood behind her while she clasped a string of pearls around Carrie’s neck. She stood back. “Shall we go down? It’s almost nine, and Nicholas is always prompt.”

Carrie arranged the silk shawl loosely at her elbows and picked up her reticule and fan in nervous gloved fingers. A final glance in the mirror told her the circlet of rosebuds remained in place on her hair.