He tipped his head and then slipped away into the crowd toward the lady. Lightmorrow shook his head. “Besotted,” he grumbled. “Every one of my friends has been similarly struck, it seems. You and I must focus on remaining—”
He didn’t finish the sentence but instead stared off toward the entrance to the ballroom. Roarke followed his gaze and caught his own breath. Two women had entered the room. One was a slender, dark-haired woman with a shy blush to her cheeks. The other was petite and curvaceous, her auburn hair done stylishly at the nape of an infinitely kissable neck.
He blinked. “Who is that?”
“Etta,” Lightmorrow said softly and then shook his head. “Forgive me, the Duchess of Tunbridge. And the shorter lady with her is the focus of your questions earlier. The Duchess of Sidmouth.”
Roarke’s eyes went wide as he looked again at the two ladies who were now moving across the room, smiling at friends.Thatwas his uncle’s second wife? That absolute stunning vision of a woman who looked like she could still claim her spot as debutante was the much-hated Flora? No wonder his cousins had despised her. She was a breath of fresh air, a spot of light one couldn’t look away from.
And far, far too young for his uncle, who had married her when he was into his fifties. Arranged marriage or not, it was unseemly. She would have married him when she was barely into her twenties, if that. Was it possible his cousins were right in their assessment of her? Had this vision used her stunning beauty against the old man, manipulating herself into a fortune?
The ladies were now feet away and Roarke noticed that some of the color had drained from Lightmorrow’s face. Like he was just as enthralled as Roarke was. He found himself tensing as he awaited the exchange between the handsome duke and the stunning dowager.
But when Lightmorrow spoke, it wasn’t to her. Instead he reached out two hands and caught the other lady’s. “Etta,” he said softly. “Aren’t you lovely.”
The Duchess of Tunbridge blushed to the roots of her hair. “You are a tease,” she admonished shakily. “What a party, Theo. A success, as always.”
The Duchess of Sidmouth cleared her throat playfully. “Yes, and I’m here, too.”
Lightmorrow shook his head and leaned forward to clasp her hand, lifting it to his lips with distraction. “Of course. Welcome to you both. Forgive my manners, let me introduce you to an old friend from my school days, Mr. Roarke Desmond. Desmond, these are the Duchesses of Tunbridge and Sidmouth.”
The Duchess of Tunbridge glanced at him briefly before her attention was drawn back to Lightmorrow, but Flora…that was her given name, wasn’t it? And it fit, for she looked as beautiful as nature, herself. Flora let her gaze flit over him briefly. “Good evening, Mr. Desmond. How nice it is to meet you.”
She might have said some more pleasantries and he would have responded, but the Duchess of Tunbridge leaned in. “Lightmorrow has asked me to dance. Excuse me, Flora.”
Flora smiled after her and Lightmorrow as they departed, leaving Roarke alone with her. He stepped a little closer so they could talk and got the lightest whiff of rose petals on her skin. Intoxicating.
She glanced up at him and smiled, a very genuine and warm expression. “So you knew Lightmorrow when he was a recalcitrant youth, did you?”
He chuckled at her question. “Indeed. A rapscallion he was, even then. Always getting himself into one scrape or another and bringing the lot of us along with him.”
“How old were you when you met?” she asked.
“Twelve,” he said. “And we remained school chums for several years until I—” He cut himself off.
She laughed a little, a husky sound. “Bernadette, that is the Duchess of Tunbridge, is also an old friend of his.”
He looked across the room to where Lightmorrow was turning around the dancefloor with the duchess in his arms. They were not talking, but they did look at each other with a great deal of focus. “Hmmm, they do seem like…friends.”
She let out a little snort that told him she saw the connection between their companions just as he did. He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “So, the Duchess of Sidmouth,” he said carefully. “And where is the duke?”
He asked the question to judge her reaction, but also because he wished to see if she had recognized his last name as one associated with her late husband’s first wife.
She bent her head and took the shallowest of breaths. “Er, my husband passed nearly three years ago, Mr. Desmond.”
He heard the faint strain to her tone, but couldn’t place the reason. Sadness? Or frustration? Relief?
“My apologies,” he said swiftly. “A woman of your years and beauty, I assumed you must be married to the current duke.”
She pulled a face that she swiftly hid. It seemed the lady felt no more affection toward her stepchildren than they felt toward her. “Er, no. I believe the current duke is unmarried as of yet. We are not close since his father’s death. I’m not up on family news.”
“Ah,” he said, and shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m also not much up on the news of those of such rank. I run in quite different circles normally.” He nodded toward Lightmorrow. “Present friends aside, of course.”
“You don’t miss much,” she said softly, and for the first time he noted a hint of bitterness to her tone, even though it was in no way reflected on her face. She still looked serene and utterly lovely as she looked out over the crowd.
“Perhaps not,” he said. He turned more fully toward her and she glanced over at him. Her gaze lingered on his face for a moment, and then she caught a little breath and ducked it away.
Before he could say anything else, she took a step back. “Er, well, it’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Desmond. It looks as though Bernadette has finished her dance with the duke and I should join her. I wish you a fine evening.”
