But then he’d felt that way ever since he’d walked out of his terrace. He’d gone nowhere—not even to his favorite club—and done nothing of any consequence except see Dibble sent to prison. Other than that, he roamed his empty residence with no purpose, a kite no longer tethered in danger of crashing and being destroyed at any moment. Every morning he opened the newspaper and searched for the announcement of Fancy’s betrothal, knowing that seeing it would flay his heart, would confirm that she would never belong to him.

He couldn’t sleep, thinking of her with Beresford, contemplating how he might have handled things differently from the beginning, how he might have ensured that she was his. He barely ate, nothing tasting as fine when he wasn’t sharing the meal with her. He couldn’t even take pleasure in reading because doing so reminded him of glancing across the mews to see her sitting in her window with book in hand. Every damned thing reminded him of her. He couldn’t draw breath without thinking of her.

As he now circled the floor with the young lady in his arms, he caught snippets here and there.

Beresford.

Miss Trewlove.

Scandalous.

Why I never.

It seemed the couple was on everyone’s tongue, except for the ladies with whom he danced, but then they were more interested in impressing him by sharing everything at which they excelled rather than gossiping about the latest scandal, one that would be put to rest by night’s end.

“I’m so glad you’ve decided to return to Society.”

He hadn’t, not really, but he was so hungry for the sight of Fancy that he’d placed himself in the precarious position of having to cross paths with her and Beresford without giving away that his heart refused to release its tenacious hold on her. She and Beresford were bound to arrive together at any moment because the earl wasn’t fool enough not to accompany her and use this opportunity to demonstrate his devotion and respect for the woman whom he was to marry. It was the first ball to be held since the Collinsworth affair. It was imperative that Beresford see his lady accepted and where better to begin than with the Fairhaven ball?

“Am I boring you, my lord?”