Page 56 of Courting Miss Lancaster
“Are you all right, Athena?” Persephone asked. “You look a little pale.”
“I think I will just take a moment in the withdrawing room,” Athena said, rising a little shakily.
“Would you like me to come with you?” Persephone offered.
“No,” Athena insisted. “I’ll be fine.”
She moved swiftly but as inconspicuously as possible from the ballroom. She did not wish to draw attention but very much feared if she did not escape quickly, the tears would fall before she was away. She knew that crying at a ball was not permitted.
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Harry saw Athena slip out of the ballroom. He moved quickly. Intercepting her without being seen was going to be difficult, but he absolutely had to. There was too much that needed to be said. And he needed to hold her, if she would let him. He needed the comfort of her in his arms. That need had nearly undone him as they’d danced. It was not at all the done thing to embrace one’s partner in the middle of a ballroom in the midst of a dance. But he had been very sorely tempted.
Athena was moving quickly, but Harry had the advantage of familiarity; he had attended many balls and musicales at the Techneys’ home. The hallway was deserted—a happy circumstance, as he had no desire to attempt to circumvent a crowd.
Harry reached her from behind just as she passed the doorway to a small sewing room, one not being used as part of the ball. Harry quickly took hold of her hand and pulled her inside. He felt Athena stiffen and immediately begin pulling away.
“Athena,” he whispered, pulling her close enough for her to hear him.
“Harry,” she answered, turning to look at him, eyes wide, voice full of surprise. “I—”
He laid a finger on her lips, stopping her words as he closed the door to the room. It was a potentially compromising situation, but there were some things he needed to say to her, and an audience would be most unwelcome.
Talking was what he ought to have been doing, but touching her lips was proving very distracting. Harry’s eyes traced every inch of her beloved face—her brilliant green eyes, the tiny bewitching mouth, the dimple he knew would appear if only she would smile.
“You came back,” Athena said, Harry’s hand having traveled away from her lips to stroke a perfect gold ringlet framing her face.
He was having a very difficult time breathing. He was touching her. Touching Athena. And not in a very brotherly way. He had never once held Jane’s hair between his fingers or brushed his hand along her cheek.
“I was so afraid you wouldn’t,” Athena continued. “And then I saw you, and I was afraid you wouldn’t come talk to me. And you didn’t. Talk, that is. And I thought—”
“Athena,” Harry said again, still a whisper, his eyes memorizing her features.
“Harry?” Her voice broke a little, her tone uncertain.
“Athena.” His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure she could hear it. He was holding her face in his hands, as he’d dreamed of doing so many times.
Harry closed his eyes, forcing several long, deep breaths. Stepping away from her would have been best, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“Harry, are you angry with me?”
“Angry with you?” His shock pulled Harry’s eyes open.
“You wouldn’t even talk to me,” she said, moisture pooling in her eyes. “In the ballroom. You just left. I know I was curt with you the last time I saw you, but—”
“Oh, Athena.” He shook his head, a smile inching its way across his face. “You had every right to be curt with me—angry, even. I should have been more honest with you. You had a right to know why I introduced you to the gentlemen I did.”
Athena looked away from him, a tear slipping from her eyes as she did. Harry knew in an instant she’d imagined some horrid motivation behind what he’d done.
“Athena, darling,” he whispered, pulling her into his arms, hoping to give as much comfort as he knew he would receive from the embrace. Harry wasn’t entirely sure his heart could speed up any more than it did in that moment without bringing on his rather premature demise. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have been so duplicitous, but I simply couldn’t bear the idea of finding you a husband.”
“Why not?” she asked, her head resting against his chest.
It was confession time. If Persephone had been mistaken and Athena was not, in fact, in love with him, Harry’s next words might very well signal the end of all his hopes. He could not, however, deny the fact that she had not uttered a single objection as he’d touched her hair, caressed her face, or held her to him.
“Because I wanted you myself,” Harry admitted on a whisper. “I have loved you almost from the first time I met you, Athena. And if I did not have a chance to win you, I at least wanted you to recognize the sort of gentlemen who could never make you happy.”
“You wanted me to be happy?” she looked up at him, and Harry was certain he saw hope in her eyes.
