Gregory’s mouth opened and closed several times.
She absolved him of guilt with a smile. “You needn’t say it back. I’m only saying it because I love you.”
“Uh…” A flush hit his high, noble cheekbones, “Good evening.” He shut the door.
And with his inarticulate anti-rake response, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Chapter 23
Lord and Lady Abington’s
London, England
As to Daria’s earlier question, it took a single receiving line for her to have an answer.
Cry. She most definitely, unequivocally wished to cry.
“Your Grace?”
“Your Grace?”
“May I have this set, Your Grace?”
“Might I speak to you about…?”
On all sides, Daria was surrounded by ladies and gentlemen vying for her attention. All around, the same people who’d ignored her before wanted a moment.
She didn’t have a single moment she wanted to waste on a single one of them.
And yet, this bizarre ritualistic society required one’s time not belong to oneself.
The swell of the Scottish reel, the wild stomping of revelers working through the lively steps of the set, combined with the high, sharp whine of the twelve-piece orchestra upon the dais, wreaked havoc on her nerves—frantically, desperately.
Daria scoured the sea of guests, her search for Emmy’s familiar dark-brown curls futile. There were too many—too many guests, too many strangers, too many men and women who stood taller than her. She would never find her.
Her heart quavered.
Gregory would.
Her husband—tall, commanding every room—would have picked Emmy out in an instant and brought her to her friend. He had anchored her before, when the walls had felt as though they were closing in on her on the day of their wedding, when herfamily’s grief had been palpable and the understanding that she would no longer be with them had settled like a weight upon her chest.
He had anchored her this night.
The sight of him, the calm that surrounded him, moored her.
Where are you, Emmy. Where are you…?
The gay laughter of the revelers around Daria filled her head. The sounds of their mirth twisted, grotesque, into cackles. Men and women tossed back their heads.
Daria drew back.
It is me.
They laughed at her.
Her skin grew damp.
What else could they find such sinister amusement in? The new Duchess of Argyll alone.
