Lady Stafford’s daughter, Hortensia, was an utter nitwit. Devoid of even a semblance of intelligence. She made Mara seem like an academic. Sophia could tolerate many things, but she drew the line at absolute stupidity.
“She didn’t know who William Lamb is,” Sophia stated, aghast. “William. Lamb. Viscount Melbourne. The Prime Minister.”
“Your father’s position in Her Majesty’s government puts you closer to such matters. Most young ladies do not care overmuch for politics. Or William Lamb.”
“I doubt Hortensia has ever picked up a book,” Sophia puffed, warming to the topic. “Doesn’t read at all. How on earth am I to be friends with such a girl?” She threw up her hands. “England is an island, Mama. And Hortensiadid not know.”
“Yet she has dozens of suitors.” Mama’s brow raised once more. “Dozens.”
Sophia turned away, watching the colorful swirl of dancers before her, hating this conversation. If she could be a modest, demure, oblivious to the world around her, bit of fluff, she would be. Life would be far easier.
“I believe I’ll go find a glass of lemonade,” she finally said.
Probably more likely to be champagne. That would suit her. Sophia liked the bubbles.
“Don’t go far.” Mama, annoyed, had already turned to watch Mara, features glowing with approval at her eldest daughter. “If you see your father, ask him to attend me. And don’t get into trouble, Sophia. I beg you,” she cautioned over her shoulder. “Try not to…become overly amused as you did with Lord Albert.”
Sophia straightened her shoulders. A young lady couldn’t even watch a terrible wig slide off its owner’s head and laugh so hard that lemonade comes out her nose without constantly being reminded of it.
“I wasn’t the only one,” Sophia protested.
“Even so. Behave. Or Mr. Hemming shall be your future. Warts and all.”
Sophia strode towards the refreshment table in frustration, making sure she was far enough away from her mother and Mara that she wouldn’t be seen as she snatched a glass of champagne from one of the liveried servants circling the ballroom.
She turned her head slightly to discreetly take a sip of the pale pink liquid, grinning as the bubbles tickled her nose. Quickening her steps, Sophia ducked into a nearby alcove whose only other occupant was alarge fern. Draining her glass, far too quickly, she toyed with returning to Mama now that she was somewhat fortified, but caught sight of Lady Stafford heading in Mama’s direction. Which meant Hortensia couldn’t be far behind.
More champagne was in order. Sophia spun towards the refreshment table.
Hortensia’s pink skirts appeared in the crowd, as she took Mara’s hand in greeting. Her head tilted in the direction of the refreshment table and caught sight of Sophia. Her pretty features immediately soured.
“I probably shouldn’t have burst into giggles when she claimed a woman gave birth through her belly button,” Sophia muttered. “But I’d never heard anything so stupid.”
Defiantly grabbing another glass of champagne, she turned in the opposite direction, and the breath halted in her lungs, as if all the air had been sucked out of the Perswick ballroom.
Oh. Oh. My.
She’d never thought to seehimat a ball. He rarely attended such events, possibly because, according to the gossips, he wasn’t invited. Duke or not. Libertines, especially those of such sordid reputation, were usually to be found at gambling hells or other seedy locales. Sophia had only seen him once before, falling off his horse in the park—in an utterly ducal manner.Because in addition to his devastating masculine beauty, the Duke of Roxboro was reputed to be a sot.
Devastating indeed. Absolutely no exaggeration.
There was no mistaking Roxboro. Not with that careless mess of coffee-colored hair, the chiseled jaw that could cut glass, and those startling eyes.
Unmistakable.
Orbs a shimmering green, shot through with threads of silver. The combination the same hue as the sky before a violent storm.
Sophia nearly dropped the champagne when Roxboro’s gaze caught and held hers.
She raised the glass, fingers clutching the stem, to her lips, the sapphire bracelet clanking softly against the glass.
Roxboro raised his own goblet of wine in a silent toast, never once looking away.
Good lord, he’s…magnificent.
Wealthy. A duke. Known for his exquisite and expensive manner of dressing. One could live comfortably for years on what one of Roxboro’s coats cost. Reputed to have four mistresses. Prone to misadventure, most likely caused by his love of drink and propensity to haunt brothels and gambling hells. Binson’s was said to be his favorite. An unapologetic libertine.
And he was…looking ather.
