Spring 1818...
Where on earth was the blasted man?
Lady Gillian Marley resisted the urge to stalk to her front door, throw it open, and scour the streets of London for him herself.
What if he wasn't coming at all?
The thought tightened the muscles in her shoulders, but she refused to let her well-practiced smile so much as twitch. Instead, she surveyed the room with the air of serene confidence worn only by a hostess who has accomplished the difficult task of melding a diverse group of people into a cohesive gathering.
There were perhaps twenty in attendance at her salon tonight. In one corner, several members of Parliament argued amicably about some obscure issue. Another grouping dissected the latest work of a rising poet, while the merits of a new exhibit of paintings held the attention of yet another duster of guests.
Gillian's skill as a hostess in such a setting was unrivaled, her reputation for gatherings of this nature unequaled. The picture she presented to the world was, as always, cool and controlled and competent.
Not a single guest here would suspect every nerve in her body was stretched as taut as a piano wire. Not even the most astute observer would imagine the upheaval in her stomach. And absolutely no one would ever dream it took every ounce of self-discipline she possessed not to scream aloud in sheer frustration.
Where was Shelbrooke?
Gillian glanced at the doorway once again, just as she had every few minutes since her guests had begun arriving. He should have been here half an hour ago. Oh, certainly it was not unusual for attendees to arrive late. But tonight the only guest whose presence she wished for, the only guest who mattered, was the only guest who had not yet seen fit to cross her threshold.
Surely, he had not changed his mind? He'd responded to her invitation with a terse note of acceptance, and it would be unforgivable of him to renege now. How could the man be so impolite? Had he no sense of proper behavior? She was not about to align herself with anyone as rude as to accept an invitation then fail to appear without so much as a message of apology. It would certainly serve him right.
Still, her rejection would not have the desired effect on Shelbrooke, since the man had no idea of her intentions.
Gillian forced the subject, and the accompanying flurry of nerves, to the back of her mind and turned her attention to her guests. She dutifully meandered from group to group, offering an observation here, a comment there. Any other evening, she would have taken part enthusiastically in one discussion or another, but tonight she simply couldn't concentrate. She paused at a small knot of guests gathered before a new painting her brother Thomas had sent her and listened halfheartedly.
". . surely, Sir Edmond, you're not suggesting art, has no merit unless it includes figures?"
Sir Edmond, a collector noted for his extravagance but not necessarily his taste, adopted a smug expression. "Come now, Mr. Addison, without depictions of the human form, this is nothing more than a pretty picture. There is a reason why great art typically portrays some significant moment in history--"
"And is there something wrong simply with a pretty picture?" A wry voice sounded behind her, and she turned sharply.
Richard Shelton, the Earl of Shelbrooke, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, studying the painting with an air of thoughtful consideration. Her heart skipped a beat.
So this was the man who'd filled her thoughts in recent days. She hadn't stood this close to him in years. He was a good six inches taller than she, his dark brows pulled together in concentration.
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