“I will try, Uncle. For the sake of father's memory.”
And hedidtry for the next hour. Edric guided him among the gathered members of the ton, and Keaton behaved as was expected. A squire for all intents and purposes. He laughed when required and engaged in the tedium of banal conversation with his peers. A combination of the effort this took and the constant babble assaulting his sensitive ears began to produce an all-too-familiar and unwelcome sensation. There was a pressure behind his eyes, pressing against his forehead and promising to swell in intensity.
The music commenced, and he was vaguely aware of a swell of movement as ladies and gentlemen took to the dance floor.
“Uncle, why don't you partake of the dancing? I was hoping to seek the solace of a quiet back room for a moment to soothe my head,” Keaton began.
“I will escort you, of course,” Edric replied.
“Nonsense, old man. I am familiar with the layout of Almack's from my youth. All too familiar, as you and Father often remarked upon. There is a door over there,” he pointed with unerring accuracy, “leading to a corridor. Third on the left of that corridor is a pleasant smoking room with comfortable chairs. It will be quiet while the dancing is taking place.”
And a servant’s door in the corner of that room will lead me to the back of the building from where I can make my way to my meeting with Thorne.
Edric reluctantly agreed, seeing the determination in his nephew and knowing better than to challenge it. Keaton made his way in the direction of the door, feeling a loose floorboard that told him he was heading in the right direction. His cane touched a stone pillar exactly where he expected it, and he adjusted his path accordingly.
Then, something went wrong.
His first warning was a scent, wafting into his nostrils from close at hand, as though a lady had stood just the other side of the pillar. It was floral and delicate, achingly feminine, communicating beauty and vulnerability. He took in a deep breath instinctively, letting the scent fill his head.
Then his hand touched soft fabric. A shoulder. Someone was backing towards him. In his mind’s eye, he saw a woman backing around the pillar as though using it as a hiding place, not paying attention to someone rounding it from the other side.
“Oh my!” came a feminine gasp, and the shoulder was snatched away.
Keaton's instinct was to keep his hand outstretched in order to feel what was in front of him. But he realized that the woman, whoever she was, had spun at his touch. Had he kept his handoutstretched, he would now be most certainly caressing one of her breasts. His face colored at the thought.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“The Duke of Westvale, madame,” he replied drily, “may I suggest that you not walk backwards in such a crowded place. It is a veritable recipe for disaster.”
“I was not walking backwards!” she squeaked in defence. “May I ask why you were sneaking up on me?”
“I was not sneaking up on you.” He gestured beyond her. “Merely seeking the door.”
“I… apologize,” the woman said after a moment. “You took me by surprise, that’s all.”
Keaton heard the startlement leave her voice, draining away to leave embarrassment. His irritation took longer to disperse. He did not like being publicly reminded of his blindness or having it highlighted by another. He was also keen to be out of the Assembly Room before he was cornered into any more conversations. His head was beginning to pound, and he desired nothing more than to hear an update on the progress of his investigation by Aloysius Thorne. This contretemps with a stranger was delaying him and worsening his headache.
“Your apology is noted. In the future, kindly be more aware of where you are going,” he uttered with a wry voice as he made to move away.
But he had become disoriented by the incident, and after two steps, found his progress halted by a small chair. He stumbled, cane clattering against the wrought iron legs. Worse, it came to him then that when he had gestured for the door earlier, his loss of bearings had likely had him gesturing into nothingness, hence giving away his lack of sight. He flushed hard, gritting his teeth and hoping no one was seated nearby.
“Wait a moment, sir,” came the woman’s meek voice just then, “I am sorry but... are you blind?”
“No, dear, I am simply quite foxed on the fine punch Lady Exeter is serving at the front.”
She didn’t answer.
After a beat, he turned his head toward her, irritated. “Is it not obvious?”
She hesitated. “Not to me, I’m afraid. To your credit, I shouldn't think it is obvious to anyone who doesn’t already know. You are very sure in your movements.”
“Have you been living under a rock that you do not know of the Blind Duke?” he almost scoffed.
He felt a soft hand touch his arm and angrily shook it off.
“Are you blind,madame? I do not need to be steered like a wayward cow. If you would be so kind as to walk to the door, I will follow.”
He knew he was being churlish, but the instinct by most people to take his hand and yank him along was one that maddened him. A blind person did not want to be steered into the unknown but to find their own way, with a hand on the shoulder or the arm of a guide—just under their own power.
