A thrill went through her at the thought of the Duke, but she was unsure whether it was fear or excitement. When she had tended him, she hadn’t considered what would happen after. She should have realized that with the acquaintance between him and Julian, they would be bound to meet again.
But probably not tonight. Almack’s was for husband hunting, and for men who were thinking of the future and didn’t mind being prey. Sebastian Morehead was not the sort to fall into an obvious trap.
Neither would she see Mr Blake, who was poor and lacked connections to gain admittance. Nor would she see her parents, who had returned home. But not until they’d shared tea with the serious young clergyman when he had visited her the morning after the ball. He’d spoken most earnestly about his plans to settle in the country if he could find a living.
Her father had declared it a sound plan and remarked that he must marry and start a family in short order, as a wife and children were an asset that must not be overlooked when seeking a parish.
Then, everyone had looked to her.
She had agreed and nodded approvingly, hoping he was not assuming she would accept him on so little acquaintance. He was nice enough, and very sincere. But when she talked to him, she felt nothing stronger than nebulous admiration. She was most relieved when he suggested a visit to the Royal Menagerie in the coming week. It would give them a chance to speak of something other than his aspirations to give her more of the life she’d already had.
Tonight, she would associate with the polar opposite of the young clergyman. The men who danced with her would be offering her a life of idleness and privilege. They would have one house in the country and another in town, tenants, servants and all the other trappings of wealth.
Such things would be nice. But she’d much rather be excited by the spirit of the man who held them than the material goods themselves. The men she’d spoken to thus far had acted as if she was not so much a person as another item that could be added to the inventory of their successes. Was it too much to wish for a man who wished to hear of her hopes and dreams, so they might choose a future that pleased them both?
Perhaps tonight she would meet such a person. After a final glance in the mirror, she went down the stairs to where Julian and Portia waited for her in the foyer. Her brother offered an arm to each of them and they went out to the carriage for the ride to King Street.
When they arrived at the assembly hall, he helped them down from the carriage and escorted them again into the ballroom, looking more stiff and formal than she had ever seen him. He was arrayed in knee breeches and a black evening coat, as were all the other men there, a stark contrast to the many white muslin dresses, the sparkle of jewels and the few splashes of colour from the gowns of the bravest ladies.
‘It is splendid, is it not?’ Portia said leaning close to whisper to her. ‘I was not here often. My mother and I lost the vouchers before I could finish my Season. But I enjoyed the few visits I had.’
Cassie nodded back at her, too awed to speak.
‘Now that we are here, you are free to do as you like.’
‘Really?’ she said, giving her sister-in-law a doubtful smile.
‘Within reason of course,’ Portia said stifling a laugh. ‘Tonight, Julian and I will not be watching over you like hawksover a chick. We will not have to. The patronesses will do so for us.’
‘Are they really so strict?’
‘Very,’ Portia assured her. ‘You will not be allowed to waltz until they give you permission. They will choose your partners as well and see to all the introductions.’
‘How comforting,’ Cassie said, bidding farewell to her plans to exercise some control over her future.
‘Beyond that? You have nothing to worry about. You have but to be as lovely as you are.’ Portia patted her hand.
‘It will be fine,’ Cassie said, to steady a sudden rush of nerves.
‘Better than fine,’ Portia assured her. ‘It is only a dance, and you are more than skilled in the popular steps. If at any time it becomes too much? Fan yourself and ask the nearest gentleman to fetch you a lemonade. It will pass the time and spare your toes from being trod upon.’ Her advice finished; she led Cassie to stand by the velvet rope that separated the dance floor from the rest of the room.
It was only a few moments before Lady Jersey arrived at her side to introduce her to her first partner, Mr Gerald Balard.
Mr Balard was pleasant enough, though he laughed too loudly and talked too quickly. But he was a fair dancer and led her through the Scottish reel with no trouble. As they stood out at the bottom of the set, she pretended to listen as he chattered about a carriage horse he’d purchased, a little relieved that he showed no signs of caring to know more of her.
Perhaps Portia had been right. Her job this evening was to look pretty and dance. If all the gentlemen were like Mr Balard, her intellect would not be required. So she kept smiling, scanning the crowd for familiar faces.
It was then that she noticed the Duke of Westbridge, watching her intently from the side of the room.
She looked away quickly, for she did not want to seem too interested in someone with whom she should be barely acquainted. Especially not the most notorious man in the room. Beside her, Gerald had gone on to describe the phaeton that the new horse would pull. She had no idea when the topic had changed, so she redoubled her smile and increased her nodding until the next part of the dance began and they had no time to talk.
When the song ended, her partner led her back to the side of the room where another man waited for his dance, and the game began again. The gentlemen chosen for her were all equally pleasant and ranked no higher than baron. She wondered if this indicated the maximum height she was to aspire to, given her deficiency of birth. Or perhaps, because it was the first ball of the Season, she was expected to prove herself worthy of more noble partners.
It did not really matter. A title was not an indicator of character. Westbridge was proof of that.
She stole another glance in his direction. He did look fine in knee breeches, his cravat snowy white and his chapeau-bras tucked under his arm.
Appearances could be deceiving.
