Before Julius could ask what the deuce he meant, he patted him on the shoulder. “Do not worry, my friend. Dance with your lovely wife. We shall talk another time.”
He disappeared as quickly and unexpectedly as he had appeared.
“He is rather…fast,” Lena said.
“He is good at that. Military training in stealth and whatnot.” Julius tried to get a last glimpse of his friend, but he’d already gone. “Strategising and sneaking up on enemies and friends are his forte. Apparently, it helps him survivein the field.”
“You certainly have interesting friends.” Lena turned to watch Lindenstein again, who was staunchly ignoring them. “He is a good dancer.”
“It’s one of those new-fangled dances,” the Duke observed. “I believe they call it a waltz. Would you like to give it a try?”
Lena knew how to waltz. Every peasant child in Vienna did. They danced the waltz at every village fête, in every restaurant, café, and wine tavern. When the violins began to play, it was usually to the lilting 3/4 time of the waltz. The common folk had been doing it for centuries. The upper aristocracy had taken notice of it only recently. Tired of their stiff minuets and formal polonaises, they found the waltz’s lively and intimate nature intriguingly different. The close embrace of the dancers, considered scandalous by some, only heightened its appeal at aristocratic balls.
The Duke danced it well.
Lena danced on a cloud. Her feet were light, and he led her in twirls and turns about the dance floor, expertly manoeuvring them to avoid collisions with other couples.
By the end of the dance, she was rather breathless, but exhilarated and happy.
The Duke led her to the side of the ballroom, next to a huge marble urn. “Wait here, I’ll procure some refreshments.”
Lena leaned slightly against the urn and fanned herself with the fan attached to her wrist. A dreamy smile played on her lips.
The dance was beautiful. She hadn’t wanted it to stop, ever.
“Did you see that?” a female voice said from the other side of the urn. “That English Duke’s wife. I saw Metternich fuss over her, no doubt to make the Duchess of Sagan jealous. Her stare had the force of a hundred daggers. How he flirted with her, and right next to his wife, too.” The voice sniffed scornfully. “I vow I have seen her somewhere. But where?”
Lena’s movements froze.
“You are right. I saw her dancing with the Duke. It is a familiar face. Oh! I know! Wasn’t she at Metternich’s soiree? Wasn’t she one of the—performers?”
A queasy feeling settled in her stomach.
“You’re right!” the other voice said gleefully. “But surely not? Can the English Duke’s wife truly be a mere performer?” She gasped. “I can hardly say it, it is such a preposterous notion, but can she be—a commoner?”
“Does Metternich know? Oh. Surely not! Can you imagine the scandal if it were true?”
“It is not true,” a cold, cutting voice interrupted.
Lena jumped, as did the other two ladies.
“Oh. Your Gr-Grace. I didn’t see you there,” the first voice said weakly, followed by a nervous giggle.
“If you must spread rumours, do so with a hint of truth, if you please. My wife Catherine is the daughter of His Grace the Duke of Maplethurst, and the granddaughter of a cousin to the current King of England. To call her a “commoner” is to insult the King of England directly.”
The ladies spluttered. “We were merely conjecturing?—”
“Do not conjecture. Nothing good ever comes out ofit. Now, if you will excuse me, I must deliver this to my duchess.”
There was dead silence.
Lena’s hand had gone to her mouth.
Julius appeared, scowling, holding a glass of champagne to her. “I got held up for a minute.”
“Thank you.” She took the glass and sipped from it.
He nodded.
