He did not say far away from your guardian aloud, but the marquess’s champagne-shined boots all but scurried across the parquet in his eagerness to put space between them and the Earl of Gilbourne.
Chapter 26
Three hours later, scant moments before the final dance set of the night, their hostess announced a ten-minute interlude for the musicians and anyone else who needed a brief respite.
Matilda was grateful for a moment to herself. Well, not to herself, exactly—she was still on her feet in a crowded ballroom. But at least she needn’t parry flirtatious overtures from suitors she was uninterested in, striking that careful balance between friendly and not too friendly. It was frankly exhausting.
They were down to the final two songs. The evening was to end with waltzing. Lord Thackery had claimed a second set. When he’d signed his name on her card for the second time, Lord Thackery had seemed coy. She hoped he didn’t plan on proposing.
Matilda made her way to the refreshment table for a glass of ratafia. The moment she neared, the queue seemed to swirl around her like circling sharks. She could not help but tense.
“I scarcely recognize you,” said a young lady who had been at the matchmaking festival. “You look ravishing. Quite the transformation from Marrywell, if I might be so blunt.”
Matilda relaxed. “Thank you. I owe any and all radiance to the skillful hands of Madame Theroux… and the largesse of my guardian, Lord Gilbourne.”
“Madame Theroux?” said a second girl. “I’ve been contemplating adding my name to her waiting list.”
“You won’t regret it,” Matilda promised. “As you can see with your own eyes, she performs miracles with thread and cloth.”
The other young ladies peppered her with questions about this fashion or that. Occasionally, gentlemen slipped their way into the throng and attempted to secure a preemptive spot on Matilda’s dance card for the next soirée.
One of the young women—Lady Tabitha Kerr, the only soul to have been kind to Matilda in Marrywell—batted the last of the young bucks away.
She grinned at Matilda. “By the looks of things, I’d wager you’d have half a dozen marriage proposals in hand tonight alone, if the Earl of Gilbourne’s glare wasn’t actively turning your suitors into piles of ash.”
Matilda’s cheeks heated. “He’s… protective, that’s all.”
“Is that what you call it?” Lady Tabitha said mildly, and made a production of fanning her bodice. “If these ladies were after your earl, you’d have more knives in your back than pin cushions have needles.”
“I don’t know why they wouldn’t be after him,” Matilda said with heat. “He’s the most eligible bachelor in this ballroom.”
Lady Tabitha lowered her fan, her eyes sparkling. “Is that right?”
“But he’s not for you,” Matilda said quickly. “You’re already betrothed.”
Lady Tabitha grimaced. “Please do not remind me.”
Matilda’s heart twisted. The only thing worse than the man one loved not returning the emotion, would be the torture of a life sentence leg-shackled to a person one could not even abide.
“Why are you marrying him, if you’d rather not?” she asked.
“‘Rather not’ is an understatement,” Lady Tabitha said beneath her breath, then lifted her fan to hide both her and Matilda’s mouths from view. “Decades ago, Viscount Oldfield fought with my father in the war. Father said the viscount was like family, and betrothed me to him upon my birth in order to make the ties permanent.”
“But… the viscount is old enough to be your father!”
Lady Tabitha snorted. “Do you think any debutante in here would hesitate to marry a duke or a prince because of a difference in age?”
“Can’t you say no? Do you not yet have your majority?”
“I do. But no, my hands are tied. My father is unwell and it is quite literally his dying wish to see Oldfield and I properly wed whilst he’s still alive to witness the ceremony. If the viscount had found a match elsewhere in time…”
“But if mercenary young women would marry a turnip for a title, how was Lord Oldfield possibly unlucky in love?”
“He wasn’t looking for love,” Lady Tabitha said dryly. “His betrothal to me gave him the freedom to sow his wild oats freely, since it was common knowledge he was already spoken for. Are you familiar with the name Reuben Medford?”
“The infamous rakehell?”
“A married man, now. Medford is Oldfield’s nephew—and for many years, his ward. With an example like that to follow, it’s no wonder the man turned out as he did. Oldfield turned fifty last year, and he’s still leering at debutantes younger than I am.”
