Page 8 of On a Midsummer Night
The soiree was well underway when Henry walked through the front door of the Andersens’ townhome. Mr. Thomas Andersen was a potential railway investor, and Henry had been courting the man’s goodwill over the course of the last year, hoping he could be convinced to lend his support to the new locomotive design Henry was working on. The man inviting Henry boded well for his chance of success.
Linking his hands behind his back, Henry paused near the entrance to the large drawing room, taking in the crowd. Thirty or so people milled about, glasses of ratafia and lemonade dangling from fingers, groups of women chattering and men chuckling from their perches in the corner. The room was emblazoned with gaslight reflecting off the gilded tables and the curves of the cherrywood furniture. Rich bronze wallpaper shone bright in the lamplight, an overstated testament to Mr. Andersen’s wealth.
Tinkling piano notes snagged his attention, and Henry shifted his gaze to the far side of the room where it landed on Beth seated at the instrument, Willoughby hovering beyond her shoulder. She was wearing red, a rather bold color for an unmarried miss, but it turned her skin a rosy cream and accentuated the auburn strands in her mahogany hair. With a smothered growl, Henry noted that Willoughby was not the only man who had fixed his regard on Beth; at least five other gentlemen lingered in the vicinity. But she seemed oblivious to them all; her dark eyes focused on the keys under her fingertips. Henry remembered that she had been an accomplished musician and had been asked to perform at any number of the events he had attended with her.
“Beth, play a lively tune so the young people can dance,” an older woman demanded before returning to her conversation with the ladies around her.
His brows dipped low at the woman’s clipped tone, and Henry did not miss the fleeting look of disgruntlement that crossed Beth’s features before they settled back into placidity. Who was this woman who ordered Beth about as if she were a servant?
He discovered the answer almost immediately when he spied Lucy Dalton, and the older woman snagged her arm and brought her to a stop. The resemblance between the two was apparent, with their gold-blonde hair and the tilt of their slender noses. This must be Mrs. Dalton, Lucy’s mother. Beth’s aunt.
Several couples had already paired up to dance a reel, and in an instant, Mrs. Dalton’s blue eyes snapped to him, her lips stretching into a grin. Knowing an introduction was inevitable, Henry stifled a sigh and weaved his way through the crowd toward them.
“Mother,” Lucy intoned when he arrived at her side, “please meet Mr. Ramsgate. Mr. Ramsgate, this is my mother, Mrs. Dalton.”
After exchanging pleasantries, Mrs. Dalton linked her hands at her waist and considered him intently. “I offer my apologies for not being present during your kind visit yesterday, but my dear Lucy said it was a pleasant one.”
Henry inclined his head. “I thought so as well. I enjoyed the time I spent conversing with her and your niece, Miss Dalton.”
The older woman’s attention cut to the piano, but her expression remained friendly. “Well, perhaps you would enjoy leading Lucy through this reel?”
Mrs. Dalton’s tone made it clear it was a request, not a question.
With a stiff nod, he turned to her daughter. “It would be my pleasure.”
Once she placed her hand on his arm, Henry led Lucy to the end of the line of dancers, dipping his head as he stood across from her. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Willoughby bent down to murmur in Beth’s ear. Surely, the man knew how inappropriate he was being.
Before he could consider it further, Beth played the opening refrain of a reel, and the dance began.
He executed the movements mechanically, coming forward to grasp Lucy’s hand and spin her, although his attention was steadfast on the woman at the piano. Would she consent to dance with him if he asked? Would her aunt allow her a reprieve from her musical duties?
Why did he even care about such things? He needed to marryLucyDalton. He needed to secure his promotion before the tightrope he walked was ripped out from under his feet. As he held hands with Lucy now, twirling her about, he stared into her eyes. She was amiable, and that should be enough. But his memory inconveniently reminded him how very bewitching a bit of confidence, of fire, could be. And how a young woman with a pair of whisky-brown eyes he’d once known had glowed so brightly, she had almost reduced him to cinders.
Breaking his study of Miss Lucy, Henry unconsciously peered at the piano as the music notes drifted into the sounds of the chattering crowd. Beth met his stare head-on. Did she know the direction of his thoughts? Was she reliving that first moment they had been introduced at the dinner party in Bristol? His cravat tie was suddenly strangling him.
Executing a bow, Henry thanked Lucy for the dance and escorted her back to Mrs. Dalton. He exchanged nonsensical small talk with the older woman, but as soon as he could escape, Henry fled to the terrace.
Staring out into the darkened gardens, he tried to sort out his warring emotions. For the last several years, he had devoted all his energies to his career, to advancing as quickly as he could. It had required a ruthlessness and ambition that his younger self would have shied away from. But then, that Henry had been confident and secure in his place in the world. Little did that naive soul know that his whole life had been built on fraud.
Henry was no longer naive and innocent, though. He’d been single-minded in his pursuit of success and had no qualms about ensuring his fast-rising star continued to surge by marrying into the company. It was an arrangement some might balk at, but Henry took a more practical approach. His old family name proclaimed respectability—for the time being, at least. And thus, he needed to move before the Ramsgate name was stripped from him, and scandal swept away his desirability.
Thus, Beth Dalton’s unexpected appearance left him apprehensive. Or, rather, his response to her did, for he could not eradicate the memory of what they had once shared. One conversation, one shared glance with her across a crowded room, and all those old emotions reawakened within his chest. He still wanted her.God damn it.
“Ho, Ramsgate, how are you this evening?”
Peering back over his shoulder, Henry spotted Mr. Andersen stepping into the shadows of the terrace, and he approached the man with his arm outstretched. After their quick greeting, Mr. Andersen shared that he’d heard promising reports about the Great Western locomotive and asked Henry to tell him more.
Stress leached from his bones as he settled into his element, describing the design and how his team had begun to source the parts and labor they would need to build the prototype. The steam engine had become Henry’s passion project, not just because he anticipated it would garner him and the railway a fortune, but because it would cost less to run and make the trips between London and Britain’s far-reaching cities faster to travel. Early estimates projected a trip from London to Edinburgh would take eight hours, an advancement on the current ten-and-a-half-hour ride. Such an improvement would have a significant economic effect, which Mr. Andersen seemed to understand if his eager expression and incisive questions were indications.
Mr. Andersen clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll have my secretary follow up with you, and please put him in touch with the solicitor at Great Western, for I think this sounds promising.”
Henry agreed, sealing their unspoken agreement with another handshake. With relief and elation easing the pressure on his shoulders, he watched the man disappear back into the house, pumping his fist only when he was out of sight.
“Goodness, I didn’t think you knew how to smile anymore.”
With his heart threatening to thunder from his chest, Henry pivoted to find Beth standing in the entryway, the light from the house surrounding her in a luminescent halo. The glare masked her expression, but the amused note in her voice had tension coil at the base of his spine.
“Ah, so you do remember me.” Henry looked down at the liquor in his glass. “I wasn’t sure.”
