No, that was unfair. It wasn’t Whitcombe’s fault that Charles had lost his beloved horse and was being forced to shackle himself to some Society harpy.
It was Father’s.
Charles raised his glass and uttered a silent toast before draining the contents.
Curse you, Father. Curse you to hell.
Chapter Six
It was easyto understand why Olivia’s sister-in-law did not like balls. For one thing, the noise. Inane chatter filled the ballroom, stifling the air as the ladies exclaimed over the cut of each other’s gowns. As to the gowns themselves, the cacophony of colors was enough to induce a megrim.
From her position, seated on the periphery of the company, Olivia leaned toward her sister-in-law and took her hand.
“Are you well, Eleanor? I can accompany you to the terrace if you need a little quiet. Or I could ask Montague to attend you.” She gestured toward her brother, who stood at the opposite end of the ballroom, deep in conversation with a group of young men.
“No, no, Olivia,” Eleanor replied, her voice betraying her discomfort. “I’ve no wish to leave you on your own. But I might take a turn about the terrace once you’ve secured a dance partner.”
In which case, Eleanor will be stuck here with me for the duration of the evening.
Olivia glanced about the company, unable to ignore the voice whispering in her mind—a voice to echo the whispers that had drifted across the ballroom as some of the less congenial members of the party had passed her by.
Natural child…
Bastard…
Each time she heard those words, she snapped her head round to see a group of young women who nodded and smiled before openingtheir fans to giggle and whisper behind them.
Olivia’s gaze fell upon Miss Aurora Young—or, as she’d been sharply reminded by the young woman herself, theHonorableMiss Aurora Young. Arm in arm with Sir Heath Moss, she radiated the brittle beauty that spoke of years of breeding. The awkward encounter earlier that evening when Lady Fairchild introduced them had resulted in Miss Young giving Olivia the cut direct before sauntering off with Miss Peacock, another young woman who wasn’t above pointing out Olivia’s many faults, with a sweet smile that belied the spite glittering in her eyes.
Bitches.
“That may be so, Olivia dear, but it’s best not to voice it.”
Olivia turned to her sister-in-law. “Forgive me, Eleanor. I didn’t mean to speak aloud.”
Eleanor patted her hand. “You’re worth a hundred of them, Olivia.”
“Not if you compare their dance cards to mine.”
“Then it’s the young men’s loss,” Eleanor said. “Imagine what a sufferance it must be to stand up with women such as Miss Young or Miss Peacock!”
Olivia eyed the couples lining up for the next dance. “None of them look like they’re suffering.”
“I assure you they are,” Eleanor said, with a grin. “Society ladies are supposed to suffer—to endure the company of men such as Sir Heath Moss and restrict their conversation to conceal any unladylike displays of intelligence or emotion.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “That is, of course, assuming they’re in possession of intelligence or emotion. Miss Young seems to have a little more wit than her friends, but I daresay the influence of Miss Peacock will obliterate all trace of human decency. Why must titled ladies be so unpleasant?”
Olivia managed a smile. “You have a title. Don’t they see you asone of them?”
Eleanor laughed. “My dear Olivia, I’ll never be one of them, for all that I’m a duchess. My title is courtesy of marriage, not birth. As the daughter of a man who had the vulgarity to acquire his fortune through trade, I’m not generally deemed acceptable in Society. Besides, I lack the qualities expected of a Society lady. For one thing, I dislike company.”
“Which is perhaps why I prefer you to every other living soul,” Olivia said.
The murmur of conversation intensified, filling the air with harsh voices and soulless laughter. Eleanor began to pick at her bracelet before twirling it about in her hands.
“Would you do me the honor of partnering me for the next dance, Miss…?”
Olivia glanced up to see a young man bowing before her, hand extended—one of the men Montague had been speaking to earlier.
She stared at the newcomer. Handsome enough, though his reddened cheeks spoke of a little too much liking for Lord Fairchild’s champagne.
