"Lady Annabelle," Dominic inclined his head, already calculating his escape route.
The marchioness, however, was not a woman to be deterred by mere politeness. "I was just saying to my dear friend Lady Wexham—you know Lady Wexham, of course—that it is such a delight to see young people mingling at these country gatherings. So much more... intimate than a London ballroom, don't you agree?"
Dominic made a noncommittal sound that the marchioness apparently interpreted as enthusiastic agreement.
"Precisely! And speaking of intimacy, I wonder if you might do us the honor of escorting Annabelle to dinner? She was just remarking on how much she admires your... your..."
"My what, precisely?" Dominic asked when the marchioness faltered.
"Your horses!" Lady Annabelle supplied, her voice rising an octave in panic. "I admire your horses, Your Grace."
August, the traitor, snorted into his wine glass.
Dominic found himself trapped in the web of social expectation. To refuse would be unconscionably rude. To accept meant enduring what promised to be an excruciating meal.
At least if June were here, I might have been spared this particular torture.
"It would be my pleasure," he said, offering his arm to Lady Annabelle with all the enthusiasm of a man volunteering for the gallows.
The marchioness beamed with triumph. "How delightful! Annabelle, remember what we discussed about maintaining pleasant conversation."
Lady Annabelle's face flushed crimson, and Dominic felt a twinge of pity for the girl. It was not her fault she had a mother who viewed her as merchandise to be marketed to the highest bidder.
As they moved toward the dining room, Dominic glanced back at August, only to find his friend similarly ambushed by a matron with not one but two daughters in tow. August caught his eye and mouthed what appeared to be a plea for rescue. Dominic smirked and deliberately turned away. Misery, after all, deserved company.
The dining room of Stone's country estate was a marvel of Georgian elegance, with high ceilings, cream-colored walls adorned with gilt-framed landscapes, and a table that could comfortably seat thirty. Tonight, with twenty-four guests in attendance, the gathering was intimate by country house standards.
Dominic led Lady Annabelle to their assigned seats, noting with resignation that they were positioned far from April and May—and, by extension, far from where June would have sat had she deigned to appear. Instead, he found himself between Lady Annabelle and an elderly dowager whose elaborate turban threatened to topple into the soup with each slight movement of her head.
"I understand you have recently returned from the Continent, Your Grace," Lady Annabelle ventured as the first course was served.
"Yes," Dominic replied, hoping his brevity might discourage further conversation.
It did not.
"How thrilling that must have been! Was Paris very fine? I hear the fashions are quite extraordinary, though Mama says English muslins are superior in every respect. Did you attend many balls? I adore dancing, though Mama says my enthusiasm must be tempered by grace, and grace is best demonstrated through restraint, which is why I must never accept more than two dances with the same gentleman, unless, of course, he isof suitable rank and fortune, in which case three dances might be permissible, but only if Mama approves of his character and connections."
Lady Annabelle delivered this speech in one continuous breath, then blinked at him expectantly.
"Paris was... adequate," Dominic managed, searching desperately for a change of subject. "The museums were quite impressive."
"Oh! Museums!" Lady Annabelle seized on this with the desperation of a drowning woman clutching at flotsam. "I adore museums! Well, I have never actually visited one, as Mama says they are full of dust and foreigners, but I am certain I would adore them if given the opportunity. Do they have many dresses on display? Or jewels? I am particularly fond of diamonds, though pearls are more suitable for unmarried ladies, according to Lady Jersey."
Dominic took a fortifying sip of wine. "The Louvre houses primarily paintings and sculptures. The Venus de Milo, for instance?—"
"Venus!" Lady Annabelle's eyes widened in alarm. "Is that not terribly improper? Mama says classical sculptures are not suitable for unmarried ladies to discuss."
"I was merely?—"
"Did you attend the Pemberton's ball before you left London? Everyone says it was the event of the Season. Miss Harrington wore the most scandalous dress—cut nearly to her waist, if Lady Cowper is to be believed, which Mama says she is not, as Lady Cowper has been known to exaggerate. Still, it caused quite the sensation. And then there was the matter of Lord Whitby's new curricle, which overturned in Hyde Park and sent Lady Whitby's lap dog flying into the Serpentine! Can you imagine? The poor creature had to be fished out by a passing sailor, and emerged so bedraggled that Lady Manville's abigail mistook it for a rat and struck it with a broom!"
Dominic felt his mind begin to numb. Lady Annabelle continued without pause, recounting what appeared to be every piece of gossip from the past Season, none of which interested him in the slightest. He found himself mechanically consuming his soup while his thoughts drifted to another conversation, in another room, with another woman entirely.
June would never waste his time with vapid gossip. She would challenge him, contradict him, force him to defend his positions with actual thought rather than social platitudes. Their conversations were battles of wits, each one leaving him both exhausted and strangely invigorated. When June spoke of books or ideas or even the mundane details of country life, she invested each topic with a fierce intelligence that demanded equal engagement.
She would have something cutting to say about classical sculpture,he thought with a reluctant smile.Probably something about how the Greeks idealized the male form while constraining the role of women in their society.
The realization that he missed her company—that he was actually disappointed by her absence—struck him with the force of a physical blow. This was dangerous territory. He had no business forming attachments, especially not to a woman who clearly harbored some unexplained resentment toward him.
