To Catch A Suitor: A Regency Romance (Dalton Family Book 2) Read online

  Everyone started moving out of the foyer and toward the drawing room. Elizabeth didn’t stand up, but she hoped Carver would look up and see her, race up the stairs, and capture her in a hug like he always did. But he was laughing at something Papa had said and walked right by without seeing her. Her smile fell and she let go of the rails. It wasn’t Carver’s fault. She was probably just too high up for him to see her.

  Elizabeth was just preparing to stand up when Oliver stopped walking. She froze, trying to remain undetected by this boy who she wasn’t sure about yet. His blue eyes bounced over the foyer and then up the stairs until they landed on her. Elizabeth gasped. She didn’t smile or move. Oliver seemed startled to find her there at first, but then he smiled a nice, kind smile and raised his hand to her in a soft wave.

  Something strange and new happened. It felt as if a thousand flutters rushed into her stomach.

  She wasn’t sure about those feelings, or about the boy with the blue eyes. But he seemed nice. And for some reason, she liked that he saw her.

  Elizabeth simultaneously relaxed and tensed, just like she always did in Oliver Turner’s presence.

  He walked toward her, his impressive frame even more alluring in the darkness. A subtle light played across his face—the warm glow caressing the skin of his jaw in a way that Elizabeth longed to. “What are you doing in here, Lizzie?”

  Lizzie.

  He’d been calling her that name since she was ten years old. Every time she heard the nickname she had to try very hard not to wince. It sounded childish, a constant reminder of how he saw her: his darling little longtime friend.

  “Nothing,” she said, quickly placing the torn slipper behind her back.

  He grinned, his usually bright blue eyes looking as dark as midnight in the dim light of the hallway. “What do you have there?”

  “Nothing,” she said again. It was a solid alibi. She was sticking with it.

  Oliver wasn’t quite as massive as her brother Carver, but when he stepped in front of her and towered over her as he was doing just then, he felt very much like a giant. Elizabeth’s heart stumbled as she smelled his familiar scent—like mint and fresh rain and something else masculine and spicy that she couldn’t name. She wanted to bottle it up and carry it on a chain around her neck so she could inhale it whenever he wasn’t around.

  “Then let me see your hands,” said Oliver, nodding toward her hands still tucked behind her back.

  “No. They’re cold. I’m trying to warm them up.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Mary said you left the ballroom because you were overheated.”

  “Mmhmm. I am. But my hands are…cold.” She winced. She was a terrible liar and always had been.

  As he spoke, he gave her the half smile that always made Elizabeth’s stomach turn inside out. “What scrape have you gotten into this time?” Before she could answer, he darted his hand behind her back and retrieved the broken slipper.

  She sighed and looked on, a little crestfallen, as he held the pathetic accessory up to the flickering candlelight. He began to chuckle. Elizabeth tried to snatch the slipper back from his hand but he just lifted it higher. “How in the world did you manage to tear your slipper?” Well, he didn’t need to make it sound as if it was such a fantastic situation. In fact, it had torn quite easily.

  As it turns out, when a lady stands on her tiptoes to get a good look at a gentleman across the ballroom, the back of her slipper might fall off. And when the back of the slipper is lying limply on the ground, another gentleman just might step on it. And when she goes to take a step, the heel of the slipper will remain pinned under his boot and the whole thing will tear. It was accomplished quite easily. But she couldn’t tell him that, because it had been Oliver who she was lifted on her tiptoes trying to see.

  It was his fault for looking so ridiculously handsome in his evening attire.

  “I must have snagged it on a chair or something. Who knows?” She shrugged, and Oliver simply raised an eyebrow, knowing her too well to believe such a docile story.

  He turned his attention back to the slipper and flicked the fabric once again. “I’m afraid I can’t fix it. I’ve left my sewing kit in my other reticule.” This was what she loved most about Oliver: his sense of humor. That—and his eyes, as blue as the North Sea—and his laugh, the way it rumbled in his strong chest—and his nose, the way it sometimes crinkled when he was reading. And everything else about the man.

  Oh, she was pathetic. This was exactly why she had decided to come to London: to find another recipient for her heart. She didn’t even feel too particular about who that someone might be—she just needed him to be a gentleman other than the one in front of her, someone who would return her love rather than continually dash her hopes of reciprocal feelings.

  Elizabeth cleared her throat and extended her hand. “Never mind the slipper. I’ll manage with it as it is.”

  But the handsome fool just smirked and held it up over his shoulder as if he expected her to make a lunge for it again. “How?”

  “The same way I’ve been managing it for the past half hour. I slide my foot instead of picking it up.”

  His face was too serious to be trusted. “I don’t know, I can’t picture it. Let me see the walk.”

  She gave him a flat look. “Not going to happen. Give me my slipper, Oliver.”

  “I must insist you show me your sliding walk, so I may judge whether it’s a sufficient cover or not. I cannot let my dearest friend parade about a ballroom looking as if she were mentally deranged.”

  “I’m not performing the walk for you.”

  He gave her a look that said, I think you are. She refuted his look with a challenging one of her own before rushing up to him, rising up on her tiptoes, and grabbing for her slipper. He, of course, being the ever-playful Oliver, raised it high above his head. But then he did something surprising. Oliver reached out and snaked an arm around her waist, pulling Elizabeth up close to him. She froze, feeling shot through the chest as her heart tried to recover, beating an unnatural rhythm.

  Elizabeth expected him to let her go.

  He didn’t.

  Oliver was only teasing. He was always teasing or playing some amusing game with her, although never a game quite like this one. But, still, he must have simply been teasing her. However, when she willed herself to meet his gaze, she saw something entirely new reflected in his eyes. She was dry brush and his eyes were a loose flame. There was no teasing glint. No smirk. His face was solemn and his eyes bored into hers. Knowing exactly what to do—because she had dreamt of this moment a million times before—her greedy hand raised to rest on his chest. She sucked in a breath when his hold around her waist tightened. She could feel the warmth of his hand searing through the fabric of her gown.

  Her lips parted and her breath shook when his eyes fell to her lips. She pressed her hand a little heavier against his strong chest and felt his heart beating a rapid rhythm not so different from her own. If Oliver hadn’t been holding her so firmly to him, she would have undoubtedly melted into a puddle on the floor by now. Someone would have needed to mop her up. Fortunately, he was holding her as if the last breath of humanity lived within her body.

  Was he going to kiss her?

  “What?” Oliver’s slightly husky voice broke through the moment, to her horror, alerting Elizabeth to the fact that she had spoken the question aloud.

  Oliver abruptly released her and stepped away, the fire in his eyes dying, replaced by a new, closed-off expression.

  No, no, no, no.

  She saw a muscle in his jaw jump as he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Lizzie. That was…”

  She shook her head, feeling the flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. “No! Of course it was nothing.” A forced chuckle left her mouth and she smiled awkwardly. “Nothing at all. We both understand that neither of us feels that way about the other.” Elizabeth resisted the urge to grimace from the pain of those words that were only half-true.

  He stared at her for a moment. Usually she could read every expression that flashed across Oliver Turner’s face—a talent she had developed from spending countless hours with the man over the course of ten years. But just then, she hadn’t the slightest idea what he was thinking. “Right.” He handed her the slipper. “I’m glad we are both in agreement. Because, honestly Lizzie, you mean so much to me, and…” she wanted to shut her eyes against the words she knew were coming, “…I would never want to lose your friendship.”

  She wasn’t exactly sure why falling hopelessly in love with each other would mean they had to sacrifice their friendship…but it didn’t truly matter because she had already prepared herself to hear those words.

  Because Elizabeth refused to be a lovesick, pining woman, and also because this little situation only added to her resolve to find someone new to whom she might give her affections, she said, “I agree wholeheartedly.” For good measure she added, “Besides, I’m completely convinced kissing you would have been exactly the same as kissing my brother.”

  His head kicked back a little and his brows stitched together. “Well…perhaps not exactly the same.”

  She moved past him toward the ballroom door, relishing his offended scowl a bit more than she should have. “Oh, yes—exactly the same. It would have been stale and boring and just plain unremarkable.” She heard him let out a scoff.

  It felt a little too good to make him pay for that almost-kiss.

  She paused, her hand on the knob of the door, and looked back. “I think you ought to find another entrance back into the ballroom. I’d hate for someone to see us entering together and assume the worst.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Then you would be forced to marry me. A dreadful fate for us both.”

  Elizabeth slipped quickly
back into the ballroom and shut Oliver behind.

  Chapter Three

  Oliver’s boots clacked against London’s sidewalk, a haunting echo in the deserted street. It was quiet—almost too quiet compared to the usual bustle of Town. But it was six o’clock in the evening on a Wednesday, which meant most everyone on this elite side of town was inside, dressing and preparing for dinner and a night full of dancing and socializing at Almack’s Assembly Rooms.

  He was of course going as well, because he always went. London counted on him to go and flirt with their daughters and dance with their wallflowers. It was his unofficial job to make aging mothers blush and smile and become more pliable toward whatever demand the young ladies were hoping to make on their pitiable guardians. Oliver wasn’t exactly sure when that had become his post in life but, nevertheless, it was.

  To say he disliked his situation in life would be a lie. Was it taxing at times? Yes. Did it sometimes demand more of him than he felt he could give? Yes. Did it sometimes land him in courtships, the thought of which made him shudder? Absolutely. But somehow, Oliver still didn’t mind. In fact, he felt a small satisfaction anytime he contributed something to lift another’s day, something to lessen their burden, make them smile. To make them pleased with him.

  And thankfully, none of those courtships ever lasted.

  Every flirtation or courtship Oliver entered followed the same pattern. They started with a hope so bright he felt the need to squint in its direction and ended with a false conversation about how their relationship had grown into a friendship much too dear and they were better suited for a platonic life. As your friend, I could never ask you to sacrifice a future full of love and devotion for a life of mere friendship.

  Which was a little ironic considering he was hopelessly in love with his best friend. But he had to push those thoughts away. He couldn’t marry Elizabeth because—well, he simply couldn’t. Recently, Oliver had even decided to put the whole idea of marriage behind him.

  Thankfully, romance and love-filled marriages had become quite in mode over the past few Seasons. Every lady who received his heart-melting speech looked at him as if he were the very manifestation of Eros, sent to earth with the sole purpose of helping her find true love. And perhaps he was. Not a god—but sent to earth to set up love matches among his friends and acquaintances. Because, honestly, he was deucedly good at it.

  Nearly every lady Oliver had ever courted had ended up married within two months of their separation. Even Lord Kensworth—or Kenny, as Oliver had nicknamed him ten years ago when they had first become friends—had profited from this odd talent of his. A woman who Oliver had briefly harbored a tendré for—which, admittedly, happened more often than not—had ended up falling in love with Kensworth. They had been married one month ago to the day and Oliver liked to think his presence in the situation was the catalyst for making it happen.

  There was a reason people of the ton had nicknamed him “Charming.” Some thought it was because of his smile or the way he flirted, but that wasn’t it. The lesser-known reason was because he seemed to be young ladies’ lucky charm. Oliver was sought after because to court Charming was to find oneself married and well situated swiftly after. But he didn’t mind…for the most part. It was nice to be wanted. And nice to know that in the end, he wouldn’t be responsible for that woman’s happiness. Oliver would never have to worry over becoming his father.

  Oliver quickened his steps as the sight of Hatley House—where Elizabeth would be staying for the Season—came into view. But, then he realized that his steps had quickened and forced himself to slow down. Rushing to see Elizabeth was ridiculous. On the other hand, she was new to London and likely feeling a little alone. As her best friend, surely rushing to make certain she was settled and happy was the honorable thing to do? He let himself hurry his steps again until he was standing in front of Hatley House. The home belonged to Mary and Robert, the Countess and Earl of Hatley.

  He drew in a deep breath, willing his thoughts and emotions to all line up where they ought to be. Elizabeth was his friend—Kensworth’s younger sister—and that was all. Nothing more. There could never be anything more between them.

  Before Oliver took another step toward the front stoop something caught the corner of his eye. He turned to face the small alley that separated Hatley House from the neighboring home and looked up. His body tensed when he realized that a woman was hovering half out of a window on the second floor—a line of knotted bed linens dangled from the window, forming a sort of rope. He didn’t even need to see the woman’s face to know who it was.

  Elizabeth.

  Oliver jogged into the alley and craned his neck to look up at his friend, who had apparently gone mad enough to risk her life climbing out of a second story window.

  “Lizzie!” Oliver called out as quietly as he could and still have his voice reach her. He glanced sideways toward the street, hoping his voice hadn’t alerted any bystanders to Elizabeth’s madness.

  “Oliver?” said Elizabeth, pausing her descent and peering down over her shoulder with such a pleased smile that it made a warm sensation spread through his chest.

  No. No warm feelings, Oliver.

  But then her smile fell away and she just looked annoyed that he had caught her. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” he said, resisting a grin at the sight of her—skirts bunched up in her hand, excitedly scaling down a wall using bed linen as a rope, with more length of her legs showing than he was comfortable admitting he had noticed. Granted, it wasn’t actually much. No more than he had already seen when she would lift her skirts to walk with him through the streams of Dalton Park during the blissful summers of their youth. But the difference was, Oliver no longer felt the same way toward Elizabeth as he had during most of those summers. She had been a child back then, but certainly was not now.

  Which is why he cleared his throat against its sudden dryness and focused his eyes on her face.

  “I think the answer to that question is self-evident. I’m escaping through my window.” She was moving down the wall much faster than he thought prudent. Oliver would have asked her to be careful, but he knew that would be to no avail. The woman was fearless.

  So instead, he stood directly below her and prepared himself to catch her if she fell—his customary position for most of their friendship. He held his breath when her boot slipped off the wall, but she clung tighter to the makeshift rope until she was able to regain her footing.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me to take care?” she asked, a smile in her voice, as she continued moving.

  “No, I’m much too fond of my breath to waste it on those words.” He held up his hands as she neared the top of the first floor window. Having to fix his eyes on her like that really wasn’t helping his determination to deny his feelings for the woman. She possessed a natural grace and elegance that the average woman had to refine for years to achieve. Elizabeth, however, accomplished the look with no effort at all—while scaling down the side of a house.

  It made his stomach clench to think of how she would draw the eye of every eligible male in London. Elizabeth was going to be an instant success this Season, of that he was certain.

  Elizabeth neared the ground but then paused, realizing what Oliver had noted from the moment he walked up. Her makeshift rope did not reach the ground. Instead, the end dangled to just above Oliver’s head. Elizabeth would not be able to reach the ground on her own without letting go and jumping from a height that would most likely leave her more than a little bruised.

  Her eyes reluctantly slid to his. Oliver had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned casually against the wall, gazing up at her, letting his eyes convey his triumph.

  Elizabeth took in a long slow breath and narrowed her eyes. “Oh, just say it.”

  “Say what?” he asked in an innocent tone.