She heard the sharp intakes of breath, the flutter of fans, then the cascade of whispered rumors traveling at the speed of venom. She braced herself and began the long walk across the ballroom, past knots of gentlemen in glossy black and ladies draped in sorbet silks.
Each step was measured, confident. Her mother had always said,“It is not the lion that rules the jungle, but the lioness who keeps her stride unhurried when all else flees.”And so Celine did not rush.
She smiled at acquaintances who did not quite remember her name, at debutantes who eyed her with blatant envy, at dowagers who pursed their lips as if already composing tomorrow’s letters. She smiled at them all, her mouth so fixed that she feared it might snap.
The first to approach her was a gentleman who had once, years ago, tried to court her in the most literal sense by leaving a bouquet of dead violets at her door.
“Your Grace,” he intoned, bowing deeply. “I must congratulate you on your stunning ascension. The ton is, dare I say, agog.”
“How fortuitous,” she said, raising her brows. “I so rarely have the pleasure of causing mass hysteria. Tell me, Lord Bering, how fares your wife?”
He flushed, muttered something about his wife being in Kent, and then excused himself so quickly that he nearly collided with Lady Harrington, who was next in the feeding line.
She wore a dress of such lurid yellow that it ought to have been outlawed. She took Celine’s hand and squeezed it, the very image of predatory benevolence.
“Your Grace. Alone tonight? I daresay the Wild Duke is busy, hm?”
Celine slipped her hand free and let her smile sharpen. “I expect His Grace is detaining a horse thief or wrestling an escaped boar. The country is so full of exciting wildlife.”
Lady Harrington tittered, but her eyes narrowed. “Such strength in adversity. You have adjusted quickly, Celine. I would have thought you’d be overwhelmed.”
Celine arched a brow. “Overwhelmed? No. The view is rather improved from the top, don’t you think?”
Lady Harrington blinked, then withdrew, her smile as thin as gruel.
Celine let herself breathe, just once, before being swept into the tide of conversation. A pair of elderly viscounts congratulated her on her “good fortune.” A matron commented—twice—on the depth of her dress’s neckline. Celine accepted the remarks with the grace of someone quietly drowning, all the while scanning the doors for Rhys, who was, of course, nowhere to be seen.
At last, an oasis. Lady Eliza Ashford and Mrs. Lydia Wentworth stood by the refreshments table, both sipping orgeat and observing the crowd with the air of expert ornithologists. Celine made her way to them, her heart thudding with relief.
“Eliza,” she called, mustering a genuine smile. “You look positively dangerous tonight.”
Eliza, clad in emerald-green satin and armed with a quizzing glass, grinned and pulled her into an embrace. “Celine! At last! I feared the London gossips had eaten you alive.”
“They tried,” Celine said. “But I’m hard to digest.”
Lydia offered her hand, her smile gentle but knowing. “You’re brave to come alone,” she praised. “The ton is rabid for news of you.”
“Rabid is the correct word,” Eliza confirmed. “You’ve been the talk of every drawing room since the banns were read.”
Celine cast a glance over her shoulder, lowering her voice. “Do you think they’ll notice if I drown myself in punch?”
“Only if you’re unsuccessful,” Lydia murmured.
Celine almost laughed. Almost.
“Lydia,” she said, changing the topic. “How are the children?”
Lydia’s face softened. “Robert has taken to dressing as a pirate and terrorizing the staff with a wooden sword. Leah refuses to wear anything but pink muslin. Marcus tried to ride the neighbor’s goat, but was—regrettably—unhorsed.”
The thought of Robert as a pirate and Marcus as a tiny, indignant equestrian set something right in Celine’s chest, at least for a moment.
“You’ll have to bring them to the manor when the weather is warm. I miss them terribly.”
Lydia beamed. “We’d love to.”
A familiar voice called from behind, “Is it true that you are undefeated at cards, Your Grace, or is that a legend invented by the scandal sheets?” Dahlia, radiant in sapphire silk and clutching a reticule shaped like a pineapple, swept into their group with Helena in tow.
“Dahlia!” Celine clasped her hands, grateful for the reinforcements. “If it were a legend, you’d be the one to start it.”
