“It does not speak well to your skills in the boudoir, does it?”
“Or does it speak quite well of the tart?” he countered.
“Perhaps both.”
He shrugged before selecting a different tart, devouring it in three short bites. Dark eyes flitted back to mine. “Have you made your way to the tables? I’m certain if you merely flutter your eyelashes, you could bankrupt half the men here.”
“Only half? I must be losing my touch.”
“My wife is bankrupting the other half at present.” His gaze flitted toward one of the higher stakes tables where a young woman draped in embroidered blue silk that matched his maskconfidently rolled the dice with a graceful flourish. Her dark curls were gathered elegantly at the nape of her neck. Lady Juliet Wayland.
When I turned back to Michael, his expression could only be termed one of awe. Besotted suited him. Love for his wife had smoothed some of the sharper edges he wore during our time together.
“You’ve taught her well.”
“She is… remarkable.” His tone was wistful, and his gaze hadn’t once left her statuesque form.
“I am pleased for you.”
He turned back to me. “I never thanked you. For encouraging me her way.”
“One encounter and you were smitten. Anyone with eyes could see you were hers.”
“Yes, well…” He dragged a hand through messy waves, his gaze flicking to the side before meeting mine. “I am still grateful. I know we are not… close, the way we used to be. But we were friends of a sort. I like to think we are still.”
“Of course.”
“Excellent. Then you will take it in the spirit intended when I draw your attention to your mother-in-law and leave you to disentangle her from the railing.” He gestured to the staircase wrapping the room where Her Grace’s wig was caught in the banister.
“Merde,” I muttered. “I lied. We are friends no longer.”
“A tragedy I shall be forced to bear,” he retorted, backing away up the stairs, studiously avoiding eye contact with the duchess.
I found my way to her side with a barely suppressed sigh. “May I be of some assistance, Your Grace?”
“I am unsure, darling. Are you able to reach?”
It was a fair question; she was a full hand taller than me without the wig. With it… Fortunately, she was trapped in the stairs and not the chandelier again. I climbed the steps, refusing to acknowledge curious gazes while I unhooked her.
Once freed, I began the laborious process of guiding her to the ladies’ retiring room, ignoring the snickers that followed.
I left my mother-in-law in the hands of a haggard ladies’ maid and returned to the ballroom before I could be expected to unhook her from anything else. The wall was particularly appealing in that moment. I was not a wallflower by any definition, but even I could only manage so much shame without reprieve.
Couples had found their way to the makeshift dance floor, laughing through the ends of a lively jig. That had never been my preferred dance, but the sight pulled a smile to my lips.
Movement beside me drew my attention. An unbearably tall blond man had sidled up to me in silence.
“If I remember correctly, a woman as graceful as you belongs on the dance floor. Not along the wall.” His mask, black with gold detailing, covered the entire right side of his face as he peered down at me. The other half was bare and familiar.
“Lord Champaign, it has been an age!”
“Best part of a decade. We last spoke on the eve of your engagement, I believe. I am sorry for your loss.”
The memory of that night, the night I made Gabriel mine, always left a confusing swirl of lust, love, and sorrow in my heart.
But he was right. I had not seen Lord Champaign after that night on the terrace where he caught me in Gabriel’s arms.
“I heard you suffered a similar loss. I am sorry for you as well.”
