“Does it matter? They may be the only ones brave enough to voice it, but they all think it.”
“Of course it matters. At the very least, I shall spread some unflattering rumor. Perhaps something about pustules on the member.”
That, at least, earned me a chuckle. “It was Beaumont. But you needn’t spare Parker. He was too busy informing every man there that Lady Charlotte James is in too delicate a condition to bother with me.”
“But the baron passed several months ago.”
“Precisely. Parker insists that the babe is not his,” he added, leaning in. Nothing was so diverting as truly scandalous gossip.
“Who else would have her? She is a shrew.”
“Some might say the same of you.” His lips twisted to one side in the familiar facsimile of a smile that was so unique to Xander.
“I may not be nice, but neither am I cruel. And why must you always defend her? It is one of my greatest reliefs that you did not wed her.”
“She is—her life is not what it seems.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean by that.”
Before he could explain, Davina slipped back into the drawing room pressing back against the wall. When my gaze returned to the doorway, I understood her desire for a wide berth. Her mother followed her into the drawing room. Or, rather, she attempted to follow her daughter into the drawing room.
It was difficult to say which was more impressive, the circumference of the skirts or the height of the wig. Despite both the wide entrance and high ceilings of the room, the skirts caught against the doorframe. Clementia backed up and turned side face to sidle into the room. As she did, the wig caught against a—fortunately unlit—chandelier.
Clearly having expected this inevitability, Xander rose with a sigh to extricate her. Davina leaned against the far wall, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Once freed from her candelabra prison, I offered the duchess the sincerest compliment I could muster, which was that her ensemble would be the talk of the evening. Clementia may have taken the compliment with sincerity, but one look at Xander and Davina confirmed that they perfectly understood my meaning.
A few more strategic complements had us out the door, masks in hand, and to the carriage only for all of us to simultaneously recognize the necessity of a second.
Eventually our party split, Davina and me in one, and Xander and his mother in the other. We were on our way and only three-quarters of an hour later than originally intended.
Much as Ihadn’t particularly wanted to attend tonight, I was enjoying myself.
That had often been the case since Gabriel left me. I never wanted to put forth the effort to ready myself for society. The thought of stomaching the peculiarities and absurdities of thetonwas exhausting. But I was a social creature by nature.
The beau monde was out in full force tonight. Gentle ladies were delighted to see inside the notorious gaming hell where their husbands made and lost fortunes.
No explicit rule prevented ladies from attending. But it simply wasn’t done. Oh, the occasional widow like myself, and more frequently women in the profession made an appearance, but tonight was something different.
The excitement was palpable and the ensembles more than rose to the occasion. The hostesses, Lady Juliet?* and Mrs. Ainsley, had done a lovely job turning the club into a ballroom. Somehow they had managed to make it appear as the room’s intended purpose instead of debauchery.
The tables ringed the room, with a dance floor placed in the center. A side table served as home to numerous delicacies, courtesy of Mrs. Ainsley. Tarts, pies, and fairy cakes towered atop it, each more delectable than the last.
I dipped that way, hoping to nab one of the cheese tarts before they were all gone. Finding my preferred treat among the other delicacies proved to be a greater challenge than I’danticipated. I was inspecting the selection when a warm form appeared at my side, holding a glass out for me.
I turned to meet familiar dark eyes and a crooked grin. “Celine,” Micheal whispered in a honeyed tone, a pale-blue domino doing little to conceal his identity. “Good of you to come.”
“Michael Wayland hosting a ball. I would have thought the sun would cease to rise first. I would not have missed this.” I took a sip from the proffered drink, finding my favorite scotch. I didn’t often choose such masculine indulgences, but when in Rome.
“Hostis a strong word. Acceding to my wife’s demands might be a more apt description.” He shifted on his heels at the mention of his wife, a proud sort of maneuver.
“As you should. She has made only improvements.”
“I will tell her you said as much.” He turned his gaze on the feast beside us, pointing at a tart. “Those are the cheese ones. I assume you still favor them?”
I snagged the referenced tart and bit into the delicate pastry filled with warm, rich, buttery brie and groaned.
Michael chuckled beside me. “In two years, I don’t believe I ever managed to drag such a sound from you.”
