“Lady Olivia,” the Duke began in a voice that wouldn’t carry beyond them, “may not be my daughter by blood, but she is my daughter in here.” He jabbed his thumb into his chest just above his heart.
“I understand.” More than the Duke could possibly know.
“And her interests will ever be mine.”
Jake understood what the Duke needed to hear. “I hope to make them mine, as well, Your Grace.”
The Duke nodded once in approval, and muscles that Jake hadn’t realized were tensed relaxed in relief. He watched the Duke follow his future duchess at his own ducal pace and vanish into the crowd.
A waiter appeared at his side with libation, but he shook his head. Champagne was all well and good, but he found himself in need of a more substantial drink. A drink conducive to plotting out one’s plan for the evening. In short, he needed whiskey.
He located a stocked sidebar and poured himself a finger of the silky, amber liquid, downing it in a single, grateful gulp. He and Olivia were known by the Duke.Andhe’d secured the Duke’s approval. Two hurdles cleared, but ultimately meaningless if he didn’t secure Olivia’s as well. Speaking of Olivia . . .
His gaze cut across dancing couples sweeping gracefully atop glistening parquet floors, certain he would find her amongst their number. He didn’t.
He began singling out small groups of ladies scattered about the periphery of the dance floor, engaging in lively conversations, again certain he would find her amongst their number. Again, he didn’t.
His brow knit in confusion, and his search expanded toward the outer edges of the room, over the old, the infirm, the spinster, and the wallflower, certain he wouldnotfind her amongst their number . . . He did.
There stood Olivia, her back pressed against a wall, her eyes following the dancers. He wasn’t certain if it was the atmosphere of the ball—enthusiastic violins singing the rhythms of a mazurka; golden light filtering through chandeliers vibrating alongside the hum of music and crowd; fashionable bodies radiating the excitement and tipsy joy that only a ball could induce—but she was part of it and above it all at once.
Clad in a distinctlyunvirginal ivory gown of near-transparent silk shot through with threads of gold, light and music swirled, casting her as the goddess of the ball, its Aphrodite. And like a goddess, she stood apart, alone. Yetalonedidn’t quite capture it.
Olivia looked lonely.
Comprehension of her place along her little spot of wall hit Jake all at once. Amongst the old, the infirm, the spinster, and the wallflower, she was the divorcée, equally odious to polite Society. Protectiveness and outrage warred inside him until his blood coursed hot and fast through his veins.
Olivia should be dancing.
Englishmen were a lot of spineless cowards if they couldn’t traverse the treacherous distance of a ballroom floor to ask the crowning jewel of this ball to dance. No woman in this room—nay, in all of London—was her equal. She was a diamond cast before swine.
This couldn’t stand. His feet moved forward. Though she may resist, he would coax her onto the dance floor to take her rightful place, and they would stand before this lot, united.
Before this night was through, he and Olivia would be known, properly.
Chapter 25
Olivia’s lips ached.
Blithe social smiles held for hours on end tended to have that effect on the muscles of one’s face. Yet soldier on she would, for this was the Duke’s ball, a wild success, judging by the number of luminaries populating the room. Was that the Duke of Wellington leading Mrs. Arbuthnot onto the dance floor? Those two couldn’t help but invite scandal.
She tapped bored fingers against her thigh, but remained glued to her spot of wall. For the last decade, she’d played default hostess at the Duke’s gatherings, but not tonight. On this occasion, nothing was required of her. The moment the Dowager had arrived, her part had become entirely superfluous. The woman had issued a series of commands to the staff and seized control of the room.
Really, there was nothing for Olivia to do but stand aside and observe, which wasn’t the worst thing. Really.
After all, it was impossible to be indifferent to the thrum of exhilaration whirring around the ballroom. The guests understood why they were here: to witness the engagement of the Duke of Arundel to the Dowager Duchess of Dalrymple. It mattered not that the marriage would be the second for both bride and groom. The union of two grand families generated excitement and reinforced the rightness of their enclosed world.
She was happy for the Duke, truly she was.
Across the cavernous room filled with sparkling diamonds and eyes to match, she watched forhim. A few minutes ago, she’d left Lucy with a newly arrived Miss Radclyffe, so she knewhewas here. The man who said words like,We’ve only scraped the surface of our beginning.
She exhaled a clearing breath. He’d been absolutely and utterly wrong: he and she were finished.Finished?That wasn’t correct. They never were. They would have had to have begun to be finished. Except . . .
Hadn’t they begun something? Was he so absolutely and utterly wrong?
Placid, social smile affixed to her lips, she snatched a glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and gazed across the crowd before closing her eyes and allowing the music to seep into her at the cellular level. It really was lovely. One-two-three, one-two-three . . . The human body was meant to move in time to such a rhythm.
Of a sudden, her feet longed to swirl around the ballroom. She settled for tapping out the rhythm with her fingers against the glass. Was this how spinsters and confirmed widows did it? Tapping out rhythms with fingertips and feet hidden by skirts as they sat virtuously by the wayside. Wasthisher future?
