Lady Devensham’s sharp eyes narrowed on Bess for only an instant before passing on to Lucy. She smiled in a way that reminded Bess of a cat who’d tipped over the milk jug.
“Lady Lucy,” their hostess cried, reaching out with both hands to clasp Lucy’s hands and pull her forward for a brief kiss to her cheek. “How delightful! Your dear brother told us to expect you, but he neglected to mention how lovely you’ve grown!”
Bess felt some of the tension melt from her shoulders. He was here. He hadn’t abandoned them.
“You are too kind, your ladyship,” Lucy managed not to sound like she was gritting her teeth. Bess was impressed. “Thank you so much for the invitation tonight.”
“I’ll wager you are longing to dance holes in your slippers,” Lady Devensham dimpled. “Just like my Anne. Oh look, there she is now!”
The smug pride in the mama’s voice should have been a clue to Bess, but somehow she was blindsided to see the couple that revolved decorously past.
The girl was young, no more than Lucy’s age or perhaps even a year younger. Her cheeks had not lost the plump roundness of childhood, though her figure, clad in pearly white satin, was that of a woman grown. And the man gazing down at her as though she was the only woman in the room...was the Duke of Ashbourn.
He didn’t see Bess. He never even looked up.
Good, Bess told herself firmly, looking down to fumble with her shawl and reticule as an excuse to hide her burning eyes. Put your silly fantasies to rest and focus on what is important. Tonight is Lucy’s time to shine.
And who could say? Maybe if Bess kept her wits about her, she might find a bit of the adventure she’d been looking for, too.
Chapter Nine
Nathaniel punctuated the end of his obligatory second dance with Miss Anne Devensham with a perfectly correct bow over her slender gloved fingers.
She was a nice enough girl, he mused absently, looking down upon the pin-straight center part on top of her demurely bowed head. Her shiny blond hair, combed tightly down to explode in two masses of ringlets about her ears, had a yellowish tint to it that he did not care for. It looked brassy, not like the deep antique gold of...
Clearing his throat, Nathaniel offered his arm to Miss Devensham and escorted her toward the punch bowl. He responded to her pretty forays into small talk by rote.
It required only a small percentage of his attention; the rest was engaged in scanning the ballroom for his quarry, the Honorable Peter Romby. Likely the wastrel had already escaped into the card room, and Nathaniel determined to head in that direction himself as soon as he'd managed to deposit his dance partner back with her mother.
Miss Devensham sipped her punch as if trying to make the cup last all night. Concealing his impatience, Nathaniel said, “And how are you finding this season, Miss Devensham?”
“Oh la,” she trilled. “What an exciting time it is! I do so love to dance. Especially with such an accomplished partner. You are a very fine dancer, Your Grace.”
Judging by the hopeful glance she slanted up at him from beneath her lashes, he was meant to return the compliment. Nathaniel held in a sigh.
These forms and patterns of polite society had been ingrained in him at a very young age. They were comfortable and easy to follow, but he did still find them tedious at times.
They were a means to an end. One could not expect to wield power and influence over a society in which one did not take part.
That meant following the rules, spoken and unspoken. It meant saying the correct things, dancing with the hostess’s daughter and eventually marrying a lady of perfect manners and breeding who would wield power and influence of her own as his wife.
This girl, Miss Anne Devensham, was an objectively attractive prospect for the title of Duchess of Ashbourn.
She clearly agreed, from the way she blushed and smiled with delight when he dutifully complimented her dancing in turn. At length, she finished her punch and reluctantly consented to be conveyed parent-ward.
As they skirted the dance floor, their way was blocked by a gaggle of gentlemen standing in a large cluster, all gathered around some central point.
Nathaniel frowned. “Pardon me.”
None of the gentlemen spared him a glance. Impatient, Nathaniel prepared to use his greater bulk to muscle through the crowd, but an achingly familiar soft laugh arrested him.
There was a woman at the center of the group. A woman who radiated a calm confidence and innocent pleasure in the attention of all these fawning gentlemen.
And they were fawning. Eyes avid, rapacious smiles, all leaning in like hungry boys pressing their noses to the counter at a sweet shop.
Small wonder. In a gown of bronze silk that Nathaniel had chosen for her, Bess Pickford gleamed among the profusion of pastels like a gold sovereign coin in a bouquet of flowers. Every eye went straight to her.
Nathaniel’s certainly did. He could not look away, even when the lady on his arm tittered nervously and said, “My gracious, who is that?”
