“You have set a good example to me,” Char confessed. “Every time I thought to break down in self-pity, I would think of you and endeavor to be as brave as you.”
Sarah placed her hand against Char’s cheeks. “Those are the kindest words anyone has ever said to me. Now, go capture the heart of a duke.” Char gave her aunt a good, strong hug.
Just as they went downstairs, Lady Baldwin arrived wearing what she referred to as her peacock colors. She was all blues and greens with actual peacock feathers sticking out of her pert chapeau.
“My daughter isn’t speaking to me,” she said with great excitement. “She is so jealous I am going to this ball, she cannot utter one word. Not even to criticize my dress.”
They heard the sound of horses. Lady Baldwin pulled aside the closed curtains in the front room. “It’s him. Oh my. Oh. My.”
“What?” Char demanded.
“You shall see,” was Lady Baldwin’s giddy reply. “Come in here.” She waved Char toward her. “We don’t want him to enter the house and find us all crowded around the door.”
Char didn’t see what difference it made but she deferred to the older woman.
A knock sounded.
Sarah had taken her mobcap from where she’d tucked it into her apron sash. She pulled it over her bold red hair, nodded to Char and Lady Baldwin—and then she opened the door.
The Duke of Baynton stepped into the hall on a wave of February air and, for a moment, all Char could do was stare in awe. He was a handsome man at all times but black evening dress took his good looks to a new level, especially with a wool cloak draped over his shoulders.
His presence, his air of command, filled the house. But there was something else about him that caught Char’s attention—he smelled of winter and sandalwood. A potent combination.
Even Sarah was impressed. Char had never seen her aunt taken aback by a gentleman.
However, his gaze was on Char. She curtsied.
He bowed.
They both smiled their appreciation. He reached for her hand. “You are lovely.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. You are quite handsome as well.”
Her compliment startled a laugh out of him.
“Did I say something amusing?” she asked, confused.
He took both of her gloved hands. “You said nothing wrong. It is that you are candid and open. I can’t remember a time when a woman complimented me.”
“They have complimented you, Your Grace. They may not have done it to your face but they noticed.”
“And tonight, everyone will notice both of us. Let me help you with your cloak.” He took the garment from Sarah and put it on Char’s shoulders. “My mother will be riding with us. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It will be an honor,” she said, while past his shoulder she caught the sight of Sarah pantomiming her happiness.
Fortunately, Sarah changed back to dutiful maid when the duke turned for Lady Baldwin’s cloak. Lady Baldwin made happy chortling sounds as he helped her with the velvet cape.
He gallantly opened the door, and Char and Lady Baldwin walked to the coach where a footman waited. Lady Baldwin climbed in first and then Char, presumably so that she could sit next to the duke.
Marcella, Dowager Duchess of Baynton, was everything a duchess should be. She had her sons’ presence, only the air of authority was coupled with one of serenity. Char found herself studying her features and decided Whitridge favored her more than the duke did.
She was a tall woman with snowy white hair. Her dress was deep marine blue. She did not wear the Scots pearls this evening. Instead, she wore garnets. Their blood red set off the blue and sparkled in the light from the coach lamp.
“Lady Charlene, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“I am honored, Your Grace.” She was. The woman was welcoming and warm-spirited.
In spite of it all, Char was aware that there was one person missing. Whitridge.
