Naturally.
Her father never looked at her except to lord his superiority over her.
“Of all the eligible gentlemen in the room,” he hissed, grabbing her arm, “you chose to dance with a commoner and your former fiancé?”
Defiance flooded her. “I hardly elected to dance with the Duke,” she snapped back.
“Don’t you take that tone with me. You understand the situation we’re in.”
She understood, and she hated the reminder.
“You are here to find a husband,” he said. “Nothing else. You can afford no time for any gentleman who might not marry you. And Calloway is not a man who will have my permission to marry you.”
It was on the tip of Thalia’s tongue to snap that she had no interest in marrying anyone—and Mr. Calloway had still less interest in her—and that, as she was of age, her father’s consent no longer mattered. But she held her breath and forced the words back inside.
Her father’s expression changed immediately, turning from furious to genial so quickly that her stomach flipped, unsettled.
“Ah, Lord Vauron,” he said, turning Thalia so she could see the gentleman approach.
Dread turned her defiance to ash. Lord Vauron had to be in his fifties at least, with heavy bags under his eyes and gray hair. She recognized him as one of her father’s cronies.
Oh no.
Lord Vauron looked her over, a smarmy smile touching his mouth. “Lady Thalia,” he said. “I haven’t seen you since you were a girl. You look lovely tonight.”
If you slap him, Father will not let you leave the house for a month straight.
Her father nudged her side.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, her teeth locked together in a rictus of a smile.
“Would you do me the honor of this next dance?”
There was no point looking at her father for help; he would only encourage the partnership. All she could do was grin and bear it.
Well, bear it at least. She doubted grinning was on the menu for tonight.
“I thank you, yes,” she said, unable to find an excuse.
Drat Anna and Simon for being so in love and wrapped up with one another. Drat, Elliot for leaving her when he did. Drat the Duke for not asking her to dance directly. Even he would be preferable.
Lord Vauron held out his hand, dragging her to the middle of the room far faster than she was comfortable with. He held her too tightly.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could sense the Duke’s attention. Did he pity her? She hoped not, but if she saw another young lady being manhandled by a man more than twice her age, she would pity her, too.
He tugged her closer. “You look positively delicious tonight,” he said, his hot breath washing over her. He stank of wine. Her stomach turned, again. “I confess, when I heard you were on the market for a husband again, I thought myself very lucky.”
I will never marry you in a thousand years.
She kept her mouth shut and her gaze locked above his shoulder. No matter what he said, she vowed to keep a straight face.
He tried her resolution for the entire dance, telling her that she had a plump, luscious body, that he looked forward to spending more time with her, and other unpleasantries.
Finally, as the dance ended, he slid a hand down her waist to her backside and in full view of the crowd—though she doubted anyone could see or was paying attention—he pinched her.
She leapt back. Her vow to keep a straight face disintegrated in the face of his blatant disrespect. Her skin crawled.
But there was her father, pushing his way toward them. If she had to endure another moment of Lord Vauron’s attentions, she could not be held accountable for her actions.
