From the corner of Lord and Lady Wessex’s overflowing ballroom, where all the wallflowers sat, Daria swept a searching gaze over the stately space for sign of him. The burnished floors gleamed. The gilded crystal chandeliers and matched sconces throughout cast light more vibrant than a mid-afternoon sun.
He should be here.
Absolutely certain he’d be in attendance; she’d donned her best black evening gown. From the black satin slip overlayed with gauze net, to the black jet beaded chrysanthemum embroidery upon the material and satin lace hem, Daria’s seamstress outdid herself.
But then, having worked in close collaboration with Daria since she’d been a small girl saying goodbye to her papa, Madame Marguerite knew just how to design for Daria.
The lively strains of a country reel and the collective footsteps moving in time leant an almost frenzied panic to Daria’s mind.
Where was he? Her earlier vision of him came clearer than crystal.
Restless, she peered amongst the throng of guests scattered among the rectangular black-and-white checkered ballroom; gentlemen reclined against Italian marble columns in affected poses for the ladies whose affections—or attentions—they sought, while others swept their dance partners in the broad, sweeping circles of a waltz.
For Miss Daria Kearsley, possessing the vision, was both a blessing and curse. The latter came with being born to the big, loving, but doomed family of the Cursed Kearsleys.
“What is it?”
That dread-filled question came whispered from fellow wallflower and friend, Miss Emmy Caldecott.
As far as outward appearances and temperaments went, Daria and Emmy couldn’t be more different. Emmy was exquisitely lovely and light of personality, wit, and style. As for Daria? Dark in both coloring and wardrobe, sober, and not even distantly pretty, Daria deserved her wallflower status.
The force that joined Daria and Emmy proved the greatest unifier.
Death.
For Daria, the tragic passing of her father, who’d choked to death on an olive pit and never had a chance to see his youngest daughter born.
For Emmy, her eldest sister, poisoned and ultimately murdered by a monster of a relative.
They each saw things. Daria, visions of what was to come. And Emmy, spirits of the departed.
Emmy also happened to be the young lady the duke had set his sights upon for his bride and duchess.
An inconvenience, really.
For all three of them.
Emmy tugged at Daria’s arm. “Well? Is it him?”
“I cannot yet say,” Daria murmured. She’d seen him in her vision. She’d seenthem. Daria and the unlikeliest gentleman to wed her of all ladies.
Emmy did a frantic search. “Do I have to hide yet?”
Daria concluded her search. “No. We would know.”
“That’s right,” Emmy muttered. “Because he invokes a crowd wherever he goes.”
She’d meant on account of her visions.
Emmy wasn’t near done venting her frustration and disdain. “Ladies and lords alike toss flowers in his wake wherever he goes, and let us never forget that golden light which follows wherever His Grace goes.”
Confounded, Daria searched overhead for said illumination. It appeared in her scrutiny she’d missed a detail about the gentleman.
Soft, warm fingers settled over Daria’s always colder ones. “Not an actual light, Daria,” Emmy said with a gentleness that didn’t find its way into the blunt Kearsley household. “It is a figure of speech.”
When Daria continued to stare, her friend elucidated. “You know, because the Duke of Argyll is the golden child of Polite Society. The darling desired by all. I was exaggerating to show how ridiculous it is how favored the blackguard is.”
“Oh. I understand.”Now.
