The insouciant Duke of Argyll stopped before the magnificent pair.
A fresh murmur rippled through the ballroom in anticipation of his reception.
“Does anyone here truly believe he’ll respond with anything but his usual urbanity?” Daria muttered.
“He would not know how.”
No, he wouldn’t. What a tedious way to go through life—smiling for everyone’s benefit. Never free to express a genuine emotion.
As the others spoke, Daria considered the fair young lady.
Perhaps it was not solely the duke’s practiced charm that had claimed his attention. Lady Harriet’s face and figure recommended her readily enough. With flaxen curls arranged like a golden coronet about her head and sky-blue eyes glowing clear across the ballroom, the young woman appeared hand-carved by the gods as a match for the duke.
Daria could not have been more of a foil to such exquisiteness.
Fate was amusing that way. For all the contrast between Daria and the Diamond, it was Daria who was destined to become his wife.
As His Grace bowed, he gathered the lady’s long, delicate fingers and raised them to his mouth. The guests—Daria and Emmy excluded, of course—released a collective sigh.
“You are beautiful, Daria,” Emmy murmured at her side.
“I know how I appear to the world,” Daria replied without inflection. She was nothing if not logical. “My beauty—or lack thereof—is irrelevant to my coming union with the duke.”
London’s most coveted bachelor signed his name upon the young woman’s dance card.
Daria glanced at her own, entirely empty, save for one exception. Lord Landon, former rake and now devoted husband to Daria’s eldest sister, Anwen.
She picked up her pencil and crossed out her brother-in-law’s name. Despite the charmer’s insistence that he would partner her in a set; she remained just as adamant he would not.
Daria did not dance. All the twirling and spinning and obligatory hand-holding—she saw no point in it. With everyone’s futures predetermined, the courtship game in and of itself was irrelevant.
Her friend’s frantic whisper cut across her thoughts. “Daria, he is coming.”
“Not yet.” Daria glanced toward the far side of the room. Her appointment with the Duke of Argyll was still moments away. She was not yet ready to relinquish her friend. “We have time before he reaches you.”
They both did. It required no special acuity on Daria’s part to anticipate the gentleman’s next movements. Not when he was so tediously predictable.
His Grace stopped to greet his friends, Lord and Lady Rutherford. A crimson-clad servant approached, gold epaulets gleaming upon his sleeves, bearing a tray. Both gentlemen accepted crystal flutes.
“The duke’s friends suit him,” Daria observed.
“How do you figure?” Emmy regarded the group with open skepticism. As Argyll and DuMond conversed, they sipped their costly French bubbles. “DuMond and Argyll, certainly. Cut from the same cloth. But Lady Faith?” She huffed softly. “With her charity work and earnest heart, witheitherof them?” Disdain sharpened her tone. “It is a mismatch.”
“They are precisely the sort of people Argyll keeps company with,” Daria said. “Beautiful. Worldly. Interesting.”
“Youare interesting.” Emmy did not look at her. “Argyll and DuMond? They are soulless, ruthless blackguards.”
She spoke with the ferocity only a loyal friend could.
“I am not the same sort of interest—” Daria broke off. Without blinking, she kept her gaze trained on the trio. “It is time.”
Emmy rose at once. Then hesitation crept in. “It feels a betrayal, letting you be bound to him for the rest of your life. You deserve more.”
And you want more…
A treacherous voice rose at the back of her head. It needled her with that absurdity.
“He is looking,” Daria said quietly. “If you do not go now, you will not be able to leave at all. Not without drawing the attention of the entire ballroom.”
