Grace’s arm ached from fluttering her fan to cool herself. There were far too many guests crammed into Lady Blanchard’s mansion, and she was miserable despite the opulent surroundings, elevated company and extravagant delicacies laid out for guests. Uncle Charles had gleefully given her up to her friend Harriet almost immediately upon their arrival and headed off to the buffet of sweet treats on offer. There had been no time for anything other than the briefest of greetings before they had been descended upon by a hoard of young ladies of Harriet’s acquaintance. They had given Grace a cursory glance and the barest of courtesy, then edged her out of the conversation. It was clear she was beneath their notice, and such had been the case all season. She was only tolerated amongst them because of her friendship with Harriet.
Grace wished she was somewhere far away, back in the soft, rolling hills of Oxforshire, barefoot in a cool grassy field of buttercups and daisies, instead of hovering at Harriet’s side, neither wanted nor remarked upon.
‘Must you single out the most fearsome man in the room, Harriet?’ crowed one of Harriet’s friends, whose name Grace could not recall. Oh, what was it, Lady Lydia, something or other? Oh, yes, Lady Lydia Granston - a baron’s daughter who sported a loud voice and teeth that her mouth struggled to contain. She and her haughty companions were desperate for scandal and drama, always finding fault in others, and it seemed they had found a new victim for their spite.
‘Oh, stop looking. He is staring this way. Do you think he heard you?’ cried another, grabbing Lydia’s arm, her enormous feather bobbing in her hair in mock mortification.
‘Well, I don’t care if he did,’ said Lydia. ‘What a sullen creature. A troll, if you like, a misshapen thing. See how he lurks just beyond the candlelight.’
‘I think him shaped rather well and fearfully handsome to boot. Look at the breadth of those shoulders,’ offered Harriet, casting a coy glance into the edge of the room.
‘How shocking of you, Harriet,’ said Lydia, trying to ingratiate herself with Grace’s friend as she had done all season.
Grace followed Harriet’s gaze and met a black-eyed glower from the object of their derision. She stared back at the tall, imposing man who had obviously heard their nonsense, for Lydia’s voice had a braying quality. The two of them locked eyes, his, black in the darkness, boring into her like a sword to the chest. The man’s face had a patrician look to it – fine-boned, with a broad nose and a haughty snarl of a mouth pressed tight in displeasure. Yet despite his evident good breeding, he boasted a jagged pink scar down the side of his face, rendering him thuggish, dangerous, even. His eyes held her attention – there was a haunting darkness to them as if the devil swirled in those black depths. Whoever the man was, he seemed altogether unpleasant.
A nudge to the ribs broke her gaze. ‘Look away, Grace. Do not encourage him,’ said Harriet. Grace was about to reply that she was not.
‘What are you all twittering about?’ said a portly older lady with frizzy hair and a red face, bursting into their group. It was Lydia’s dreadful mother, Alice. ‘If there is gossip, I shall have it,’ she cried.
‘The scowling man in the corner, Mama,’ replied Lydia. ‘He was staring at us and glowering.’
‘He seems rather discomforted by our attention. It would be prudent to look away,’ offered Grace.
The older lady gave Grace a dismissive glance and then cast her gaze towards the man. ‘Ah, that is Rawden Voss,’ she sighed. ‘Does he not have a whiff of Hades about him? A handsome man, to be sure, but most ill-favoured, in any way that counts. He is half man, half monster, if the ton is to be believed, and there is no way of knowing which will hold sway tonight.’
‘Whatever can you mean, Mama?’ squeaked Lydia. ‘Are we in peril?’
‘Peril. Who is in peril?’ said another matron, pushing her ample bosom before her into their conversation.
‘I am telling the young ladies about that scoundrel, Rawden Voss, Lady Prudence.’
‘Oh, a scoundrel indeed,’ nodded the lady, eyes widening in outraged excitement.
Lady Alice leant into the group and hissed, ‘Let us just say that Rawden Voss is best avoided by honourable young ladies. That fine visage does not compensate for a wild character and shocking reputation. He is a rake of the first order who will not end well, mark my words. It is just as well he is easy on the eye, or else he would not be received. But Lady Blanchard does like to adorn her festivities with the beautiful and the outrageous. Adds a bit of spice, I suppose.’
‘Which is he?’ said Lydia
‘Both, I should imagine,’ offered Harriet, and all the young ladies squealed like little piglets and stared again.
The man squared his shoulders and seared them with a glance. Instead of being chastened, they all giggled, even Lydia’s mother. Grace had to choke down a sigh of irritation at their lack of manners.
‘Do you think he looks well, Mama? I think that scar down his face is horrid,’ continued Lydia, casting an arrogant glance back.
‘I heard it was from the slash of a rapier and earned in a duel,’ said Lady Prudence, pressing a palm to her bosom for dramatic effect.
‘Is that not illegal, Mama?’ cried Lydia.
‘Yes, and a most shocking scandal ensued. A married lady was involved, though I would hardly use the term ‘lady’ to describe her if she was involved with Rawden Voss. He tends to favour a baser kind of woman.’
‘But I heard that…’ offered Lady Prudence.
‘Shush, my dear, I have the telling of it,’ interrupted Lady Alice rudely.
‘And his opponent? Who was he?’ said Lydia.
‘Oh, his name escapes me.’
‘And what happened to him, Lady Alice?’ asked Grace, as horribly fascinated as all the other young ladies, despite her better judgement.
