Judith’s eyes lit with what seemed like genuine interest. “Indeed. I have read that painters once guarded the recipe for ultramarine as though it were a secret. Later, Prussian bluebecame popular here, more affordable, yet no less admired.” She paused. “It is a color of both depth and clarity, is it not? Reflective of the sky and the sea but also of constancy.”
Rowan found himself smiling. “Constancy, that is a quality dangerously underrated in these rooms. Yet,” he added with a gentle tilt of his head, “most flattering when applied to you.”
She laughed, a clear, musical sound that seemed to linger in the air. “You flatter, Your Grace, but thank you.”
“Only insofar as fact permits,” he replied, meeting her gaze without hesitation. “Blue has always suggested fidelity and intellect. I think it well suited to a lady that seems to have both.”
Judith’s expression softened, and Rowan felt an ease settle over the exchange. Lucy had thought him well.
After a beat, he ventured forward. “Lady Judith, if you would allow me, may I request this next dance? I would very much like to continue our conversation.”
Her eyes met his. “I should be delighted, Your Grace.”
Rowan offered his arm, and as their hands met, his gaze drifted to Lucy, who stood a small distance away from them, monitoring their conversation. His eyes lingered longer than propriety allowed on Lucy as he watched her expression, soft yet triumphant, a small smile playing about her lips as though she were silently congratulating him for the successful conversation.
He should have felt a sense of satisfaction, the kind that came from impressing a lady of the ton, but it was unlike anything he had experienced before. It was different, a subtle, unsettling warmth curling in his chest, distracting him in a way he did not expect.
He straightened, turning back toward Judith as the music swelled, and he offered his hand. “Lady Judith,” he murmured, “if I might be so bold, what pastime occupies your quiet hours? I find it often reveals more of a person than any formal introduction.”
Judith’s eyes brightened. “I enjoy embroidery,” she replied as they began to waltz. “Also drawing. I confess I have a fondness for French literature, though I rarely find the time for it nowadays. What about you, Your Grace?”
Rowan answered, though his words felt strange on his tongue. “I… travel where duty takes me, mostly. I read when the hours allow.” His gaze, despite his best intentions, drifted almost immediately back to Lucy, still standing where he had left her. She had not moved, merely watching, leaning slightly against the column, and her smile, gentle and amused, gnawed at his concentration.
He forced himself to nod politely at Judith’s observations, to comment in kind on literature and technique, but each word felt secondary, a pretense for his mind which refused to settle. He noticed her laugh, a soft, cultivated sound, and yet his attention again shifted involuntarily, drawn like a compass needle to Lucy.She was… there in the periphery, and he could not ignore it, no matter how carefully he tried to focus on Judith.
Rowan realized then, with some irritation at himself, that he was talking to a lady but thinking of another. He glanced at Judith, who was awaiting his response, her brows raised slightly in anticipation, and he forced a polite smile. “Indeed, that is most fascinating,” he said.
Rowan’s words barely left his lips before his attention snapped. He lifted his eyes again and froze. A gentleman stood beside Lucy, laughing at something she had said, his hand brushing hers ever so lightly as she smiled up at him. The sight made Rowan’s stomach twist, and for the briefest moment, he missed a step, catching himself against the polished floor just in time.
“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Judith asked, visibly surprised.
“Yes,” he lied. “My apologies.”
For the briefest instant, the music, the vanished. He couldn’t hear it anymore. There was only Lucy and the man leaning in close enough to make Rowan’s jaw tighten.
All he could wonder was who that man was and why he was standing so close to Lucy.
“Am I interrupting something?” Rowan’s voice cut through the murmurs of the ballroom, smooth and controlled but with an edge that made the gentleman standing next to Lucy stiffen.
The dance had barely ended when Rowan excused himself from Judith. His eyes had caught the gentleman standing too close to Lucy, the one whose laughter had drawn her away for a brief moment, and he could not ignore it. Not when every instinct in him bristled at the thought of another man touching her, even in the lightest, most innocent way.
Lucy turned to him immediately, a small smile still lingering on her lips. “Your Grace, this is Mr. Faraday,” she said, her voice cheerful. “We were merely discussing the embroidery on the Lady Begbroke’s new gown and the color of the thread; it reminded me of the velvet roses in the gardens at Langridge.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Is that so?” he asked, stepping closer, letting the faintest shadow of scolding fall across his words. The gentleman nodded, clearly unsettled, caught off-guard by Rowan’s gaze.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Faraday greeted, “I have heard so many good things about you. It’s pleasing to meet you in person like this.”
“I would hardly call this a meeting,” Rowan snapped back.
Before the man could speak again, Rowan inclined his head slightly toward Lucy, offering his hand. “May I have the next dance, Miss Crampton?
Lucy’s lips twitched in surprise though she recovered quickly. Rowan’s gaze never left Lucy’s, and as she placed her hand in his, a shiver of anticipation passed through him, one that neither the music nor the crowd could dispel.
“That was incredibly mean, Your Grace,” Lucy said as they took the floor. “I am almost certain he was about to ask me to dance.”
“You wanted to dance with him?” he questioned, tilting his head to the side.
“Not exactly,” she answered and sighed. “He’s harmless. I’ve known him for quite some time.”
