“A vision,” he breathes. “Your Grace, as upon our last occasion to meet, I feel I’ve conjured you from a dream.”
The band starts up, a violin sonata—a Corellisonata de camera, if she’s not mistaken.
Mr. Ogden cocks his chin, listening, highlighting a sweep of muscle in his neck. Alice wonders if he’s practiced that expression in the mirror.
“I don’t suppose you’ll favor me with a dance?” He leans close enough to fog up her cheek with his breath.
She affects a tragic stare. “I would love nothing more. But I have vowed not to dance until my country is free.”
He closes his eyes as if moved. “Naturally. Youangel.” And pivots neatly away to take his livid wife’s arm and lead her into the dance instead.
Ogden likes the game. The chase as much as the act itself. I must make him believe there is only one possible path to my bedroom.
Alice steps back, momentarily alone as the dance begins. She spies Cora across the room. Notes the appreciative, if perhaps a bit intimidated, glances of the men who approach to ask others to dance but not Cora.
How odd. They may have made her a little too beautiful.
Either way, it makes no difference if her intended audience fails to turn up.
Perhaps he’s already here. Unless he closely resembles his father, he’ll blend right in with the rest of these bright young knickerbockers and slightly slicker, richer parvenus.
Ward, appearing from nowhere, presses a glass into her hand. Champagne. She lifts it to him in thanks before sipping.
“I’m glad you’re so tall,” Ward drawls. “You can hide me.”
She laughs quietly. “From whom?”
“Vandemeer. Beelined for me as soon as I walked into the men’s lounge. Has a bone to pick, somethin’ about not introducing you to him before the Ameses, but I’ve managed to evade him so far.”
“Don’t stay too evasive.” Alice smiles. “I’ll need to speak with them before the night is out.”
“Never you worry, my dear duchess.” At her sidelong expression, he raises his bushy eyebrows. “Before you ask, no, the Patriarchs did not receive an answer one way or the other from young Mr. Peyton, but I can assure you, the invitation was hand-couriered to the lad while he was out observing a surgical procedure at the New York Academy of Medicine—a particular hobby of his.”
“One might even call it a peculiar hobby,” Alice mutters, a slight wrinkle forming between her brows.
“Beneficial to us, however. I knew better than to send an invitation to his place of residence, where his father no doubt has a standing order to the servants to discard any social correspondence before his son can catch whiff of it.”
“The New York Academy of Medicine?” Alice frowns. “I don’t suppose there’s a ladies gallery there. If he doesn’t come tonight—”
“Put aside your contingencies for one night, my dear,” Ward says, voice light with jollity as he takes his leave to greet other guests. Then, with a droll wink, adds, more loudly, “Enjoy the ball, Your Grace. I can assure you, no bombs are going to drop here tonight.”
Chapter 9
Quiet Decorum
Coraline O’Malley feels like a bomb about to detonate right here inside this ballroom. Months of planning, training, sitting straight, talking softly, laughing in just the right key, whispering in French as she nibbles on asparagus—everything, all of it, comes down to tonight’s introduction to society, and somehow, mere hours into the evening, she has been rendered adebutante non grata.
Notonesuitor has approached her on his own accord since Cora stepped foot inside this grand wedding cake of a building, with its dwarfing chandeliers and glittering ballroom floor. Could her Württembergian accent be too harsh, off-putting? No, that’s ridiculous; she has barely had the chance to speak to anyone. And it’s absolutely not about her appearance—Béa’s cosmetics skills tonight have sharpened Cora’s features to the point where they could cut glass—nor her gown, as this champagne silk rental is especially stunning.
Cora peers around the party from where she’s currently marooned, near the refreshments table, beside a trio of vapid young ladies—Arabella Ames, the Vandemeer girl, and Mrs. Witt’s boresome daughter, the pug-faced brunette BonnieWitt. Cora spots Alice across the ballroom, currently preoccupied, she and Ward both being paraded from one fine family to another by Mrs. Ames, like pets on a leash. No, Cora will need to figure this out on her own, and fast. If she cannot ensnare the attentions of some of these gentlemen before Mr. Peyton arrives—assuming hewillindeed arrive—she’s going to appear to her mark like unwanted, damaged goods.
“If Robert Davenport doesn’t approach me in the next ten minutes, I am going to throw a fit,” mutters the curvy blonde beside Cora.
“Marion Vandemeer,known as Mimi.”Alice’s tutorials flood Cora’s mind like a spring.“The spoiled rotten daughter of old money James and his second wife, Olivia, a glamorous laudanum addict—or so the rumors go.”
“I’m sure he’ll come around, Mimi,” Arabella whispers. She smiles gently at her scowling friend. “He probably assumes your dance card is already full.”
“What a conniving little attempt to point out my shortcomings.” Mimi’s eyes narrow. “The card ishalffull, Arabella, which means halfempty. And I’ve already made far too many compromises. Boys with immigrant parents, paltry inheritances, overbites—”
