“We came for the bracing sea breeze,” Aurelia said wryly. Although she had to admit, she was feeling stronger for the trip. How much of that strength came from seeing Sebastian walking beside Lord Ware’s chair and speaking animatedly, she didn’t know.
When had his well-being mattered so much to her?
Knowing that there was at least someone in his vicinity who would not treat him with disgust and disrespect made such a difference to Aurelia’s heart.
How grateful she was.
“Papa likes him,” Mary Ann added dismissively. “He doesn’t get out much, but he’s had the curate for dinner, and the vile things that man said about the duke—”
“Tell me,” Aurelia coaxed, suddenly agog to know the latest gossip.
“Well, he doesn’t attend church, you know, so that makes him a degenerate by sheer circumstance. You should have heard Papa, Aurelia—he informed the curate that as he rarely attended church, he mustalsobe a degenerate.” She giggled. “I have never seen a man so flustered in my life. He didn’t know what to say.
“Although Papa informs me he was somewhat of a poor example until he met Mother, and she set him on the straight and narrow. She’s dead now, God rest her soul, but he says he is too old and tired to deviate from the path of goodness she put him on. And he has me, and I would kick up such a fuss if he were to do anything so very terrible.
“But the curate didn’t know any of that, he merely knew he had insulted an earl, and he was very apologetic. Papa has a reason not to attend church—it gets very troublesome for his chair—and he went as far as to say that if the curate had a more welcoming environment for the duke, perhaps he would consider attending.”
When Aurelia had been living with the Duchess of Fenwick, they had all traipsed to church on a Sunday morning, mostly to see and be seen, and Aurelia had hated every second. There wasnext to no piousness in sight, and yet the duchess was openly venerated for her devotion to the Lord.
“Attending church is not the only sign that one might be a good person,” she said, stubbornly. “And, indeed, these days, I would suggest it is far from the best sign.”
“Yes, one cannot have a face like that and be a bad man. I simply won’t allow it.” Mary Ann sighed and rested her head against Aurelia’s shoulder. “I pray I find a husband like that.”
“Rumors and all?”
“What do I care for rumors? They only matter if they’re true.” Mary Ann raised her head to look directly at Aurelia. “And are they true?”
“No,” Aurelia answered confidently for the first time. “They are absolutely not.”
“Well, then. What do you care about them?”
“I don’t,” Aurelia replied, and realized, with a start, it was true.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Now that she was a duchess, Aurelia received a great deal more post than she ever used to. Invitations to balls, soirees, dinners. Sebastian, from the very beginning, had informed her to toss all invitations into the fire, as they would not be attending, and for the most part, she had not objected. She had not married to put herself on display.
But before she threw them away, she always checked their contents first. One did not discard without knowing precisely what one was discarding.
And this particular embossed card in her hand invited them both to a masquerade ball.
Her stomach twisted with anticipation.
The lady who invited them was of little consequence—Aurelia had never heard of her, and she knew she was only invited by dint of being the Duchess of Ravenhall. And, most notably, theylived close enough to London that they could, feasibly, travel in for such an event. It was an hour’s journey, perhaps two at most.
Easily enough to do for a masquerade.
And Aurelia had never been to a masquerade.
The thought stirred something in her romantic heart—howexcitingit would be not to know everyone’s identity!—as she ambled over to where Sebastian was working in his study.
For a long moment, she watched him, the tendons flexing in the back of his hand as he wrote, dipping his pen periodically into the ink. His handwriting was neat and elegant, yet there was a masculine line to it; the perfect handwriting for a duke.
After a long moment, he glanced up to see her standing in the doorway. Salt crusted his raven hair, dried white on his collar from their earlier trip. “Well?” he asked, quirking a brow.
In answer, she held up the invitation.
“No,” he answered shortly, turning back to his work.
