I shall wear it to the ball tomorrow. Yes. It will make Papa happy and it will show the Duke that his efforts are appreciated. It will please him to see me wear it.
Yes, that was the least she could do. As she went to sleep, she found herself ever more curious about the young man. Perhaps the ball would turn out much more enjoyable than she thought.
Chapter 7
Christopher stood outside Worcester Ballroom and found himself wracked with nerves. Perhaps Henry had been right. He had put the young woman on a pedestal, hadn’t he? What if she did not live up to his daydreams? Had he made a cake of himself, thinking he’d find his future wife here tonight?
And what if she is all I hope her to be but then she does not care for me? I am after all down on my luck, despite the grand title and fine clothing.
It was not like Christopher to doubt himself at all. He was usually self-assured to the point of being accused of arrogance. Not tonight, however. Tonight, he felt like a young boy on his first day at Eton once more.
“Topher, are you simply going to stand there and block the entrance or are we going inside?” Henry prompted him. Henry had come to the ball under protest, proclaiming that he would much rather continue to read his novel than prance around, dressed up in his finest.
Of course, he had agreed to come. Christopher knew his brother would do anything for him, just as he would do anything for Henry. And right now, in this moment, he was more than grateful for the company.
Taking in a lung full of the warm air, Christopher set one foot in front of the other and made his way inside.
* * *
The brothers climbed the stairs and stepped through the front door. It was already well past eleven and the majority of guests had arrived, meaning the receiving line was relatively small.
Christopher immediately scanned the area for Lady Rowena but found himself disappointed. At the front of the line, just to the left of the entrance, was the young lady in whose honor the ball was held, and her mother, Lady Hazelshire. Rowena was nowhere to be found.
“Do not fret, your lady will be in the ballroom already, I am certain,” Henry whispered, a smirk on his face.
Christopher opened his mouth to reply but found himself interrupted as the gentleman who’d taken their calling cards motioned for them to step forward to be introduced.
“His Grace, Christopher Newmont, the Duke of Westmond and his brother, Henry Newmont,” the man said.
Christopher stepped forward.
“Your Grace, an honor to meet you,” Lady Hazelshire said as she curtsied to him. She nodded with a slight bow of the head.
“The honor is all mine,” he said. He noticed that Lady Hazelshire appeared to look past him, and toward the entrance as if expecting somebody.
“Your Grace,” Lady Hazelshire, she looked back at him and directed him toward her daughter. “My daughter, Lady Catherine.”
He stepped over to the young woman who looked like a slightly younger version of her mother and shook her hand. He was taken aback by how much she resembled the painting. Whoever the painter was, he could capture one’s likeness to perfection.
“Lady Catherine, an honor to make your acquaintance.”
“The honor is all mine,” the young woman replied as she curtsied.
How many times has she had to repeat this process tonight? A hundred?
He stepped aside as it was now Henry’s turn. With the formal introductions made, the brothers made their way into the ballroom. The space was lit so brightly it was almost like stepping into daylight.
“It must have cost a fortune in candles to light this room,” Henry commented, the disdain for the waste of money lacing his words.
“Hazelshire is among the wealthiest men in England, Henry. He can easily afford–” He stopped so abruptly the young man who’d walked behind them crashed into him. Christopher did not even hear his muttered apology for he was mesmerized by what he saw before him.
There she was. Not three steps away, standing beside her father, the regal-looking Lord Hazelshire. The woman from the painting. The woman he’d longed to meet for these past two weeks.
Lady Rowena…
She was dressed in a beautiful pale-blue silk gown which was brightened by what seemed like a million carefully applied white pearls. Her hair, which was so dark it was almost black, was pinned up and wrapped in a white bandeau which in turn was covered in blue stitching and more pearls. She was beautiful and almost angelic as she stood, her fingers hidden beneath white silk gloves.
What drew his attention more than anything else however, wasn’t her beauty, it was the serious expression on her lovely face. She looked as though the weight of the world rested on her shoulders: The way her eyes were slightly narrowed and her lips, her beautiful lips, were pressed together.
