Gayle Buck by Hearts Betrayed

beginning movement of the dance prohibited easy speech. When they came together, Sir Lionel said, “Forgive me. My only excuse must be my high regard for you. Lord Randol is—”
    She said swiftly, “Sir Lionel, I have no wish to discuss his lordship with you or anyone else. I hope that is clear, sir.”
    With an understanding glance, Sir Lionel nodded. He commented on the weather, giving reassurance to Michele that he would abide by her wishes and making it possible for her to relax and enjoy the lively country set.
    Lord Randol left the Davenport ball immediately after his unsatisfactory waltz with Mademoiselle du Bois. He had expected to derive a certain pleasure from the mademoiselle’s distress. Instead, the manner in which she had turned from him, and the glimpse he had had of tears beginning to fall, had left him unaccountably disturbed. He was infuriated by his weakness, and on the instant had sought out Lady Basinberry to take his leave.
    He had intended to drop in at another engagement, but his restlessness of spirit led him instead to his club. He was not displeased by his unconscious choice, and he called for a bottle of brandy. Ensconcing himself at a solitary table at the farthest end of the game room, Lord Randol settled himself for a serious bout of drinking. More than one acquaintance, upon recognizing his lordship, had started toward him, only to hesitate at his black expression and then quietly withdraw without bringing himself to the viscount’s attention.
    Hours later the waiters who stood unobtrusively at the far end of the room gazed over at the lone gentleman who sprawled carelessly in his chair. A bottle stood at his elbow and a glass was held firmly in his left hand. As his audience watched, Lord Randol tossed back the contents of the glass. He reached again for the bottle.
    “How is his lordship?” a waiter asked one of his fellows.
    The other shook his head. “I just took over a fresh bottle to him. I’ve never known his lordship so black, nor so determined to drink himself senseless.”
    “Likely we’ll end by helping his lordship to a cab,” observed the first, and his companion agreed.
    Unaware that he was the topic of such concern, Lord Randol broodingly regarded the gaming room of White’s. Even at that late hour there were several gentlemen at the green baize tables, flushed and the worse for wine. Their cravats were loosened and their careful pomades disturbed. Their eyes glittered feverishly or appeared bored, according to their degree of desperation or their dispositions, as they concentrated on the turn of the cards or the clicking roll of the dice.
    But Lord Randol’s thoughts were not on the gamesters. He fumbled in his pocket for his timepiece and focused on it with difficulty. “Three in the morning, by God,” he said aloud. He had been drinking steadily for three hours in an effort to expunge from his thoughts a certain lady’s midnight-blue eyes and lovely face. He had not been successful.
    Instead, he was haunted by snatches of memory. Brussels in the sweet-scented spring and early summer. A moon-washed kiss. The sweeping magic of a waltz with the lady he loved held close in his arms.
    Lord Randol gave a short bark of laughter and lifted his glass in a sardonic toast to those lost moments. The battle of Waterloo had crushed everything worth living for, but still he survived.
    The waltz earlier that evening had been much like those others. The woman he had loved was still breathtaking to his senses. But he had learned a most painful lesson, one that he would never forget. His lady’s beauty cloaked a nature that was shallow, cruel, and weak.
    Mademoiselle Michele du Bois had abandoned him when he most needed her. Her professed love had been the mournings of a selfish creature, a creature who could not bring herself to comfort one who suffered the agonies of terrible wounds.
    He had lain for weeks between life and death, hoping that she would come, despairing that