Unforgiven (The Horsemen Trilogy) by Mary Balogh

stouthearted his mother was. None of them would wish to drag him unnecessarily from the felicity of basking in the happiness of the early days of his betrothal.
    He must return home without delay, he decided at one moment. He would have his bags packed and have his carriage prepared. Indeed, he would not even wait for his bags to be packed. But the next moment he decided that he must remain for at least one more day. He could not possibly disappoint Miss Hayes and Lady Hayes by being unavailable to escort them to Dunbarton in the coming evening. And if he could not escortthem, then who would? They would be doomed to remain at home. Besides—and perhaps of more importance when he remembered to set personal inclinations aside—he could not possibly disappoint his lordship, the Earl of Haverford, who had forgiven the Hayes family and himself as head of that family, albeit he bore a different name, and who would be eager to demonstrate the generosity of his restored friendship for all his family and neighbors to behold.
    Moira reminded him that Lady Hayes had decided not to attend the ball and assured him that for her part, she would prefer to see him relieve his anxieties by returning home to his mother. Besides, she was not a girl to crave the pleasure of a mere ball.
    For which hopeful little speech she was rewarded by having both her hands seized in a fierce clasp. Such generosity of spirit in Miss Hayes, such selfless concern for the health of her future mother-in-law, such tender concern for his own sensibilities, such a willingness to be deprived of a treat left him speechless indeed. How could he respond to such gentle devotion except by demonstrating a matching selflessness? He would escort Miss Hayes to the ball, he would make merry there just as if his heart were not heavy within him, and he would postpone his return home until tomorrow.
    Moira smiled and thanked him.
    But hope was not entirely dead. Christmas Day had been a cloudy, gloomy day. The clouds seemed even lower and grayer on the morning of the ball, and before noon thin flakes of snow began to float downward, enough to powder the dry ground and the grass and raise Moira’s hopes. If it thickened and fell more heavily, travel could become difficult and dangerous, perhaps quiteimpossible. The ball would have to be canceled or at least confined to a mere dance for the houseguests at Dunbarton.
    But the snow stopped altogether soon after noon and did not resume even though Moira paced frequently to the window to peer outward and upward and will the clouds to drop their heavy load. It seemed that she was doomed to attend a grand ball. And to waltz at it with the Earl of Haverford.
    And so she dressed later in a new peach-colored evening gown, its sheer muslin overdress revealing the sheen of satin beneath. It was not a remarkably fussy dress. She was six-and-twenty after all. The hem was simply ruched and there were no ruffles. The high waist was caught beneath her bosom with a silk sash. The neckline was low but certainly not as low as fashion allowed. The sleeves were short and puffed. She had her hair dressed in curls and ringlets but would allow nothing too elaborate. She chose not to wear either a turban or plumes. She had always valued simplicity in dress.
    “You look very well, dear,” her mother said before she left her dressing room.
    “The color is not too bright?” Moira asked somewhat anxiously. They had only recently left off their mourning for her father. Her eyes had become attuned to black and gray. “I do not look too girlish, Mama?”
    “You look like the beautiful woman you are,” her mother said.
    Moira smiled and hugged her. It was an exaggeration, of course. She had never been beautiful, even as a girl. But she
felt
good and she felt in an almost festive mood despite her dashed hopes earlier in the day. Would he think she looked beautiful or at least well enough? Would he think that she dressed too brightlyor too girlishly? Would