Marguerite nodded gratefully and took a deep breath as the white marbled foyer became a flurry of activity, she and Corie joined by Donovan and a smiling Lindsay resplendent in a rose-colored silk gown. Six months with child now, she glowed with good health and vigor. Her dashingly handsome husband, Lord Dovercourt, attired like Donovan in formal evening wear, strode from the library and offered her his arm.
“My beloved, come.”
My beloved. Oddly enough, Jared’s husky endearment to his beautiful wife of three years soothed Marguerite’s apprehension, as did Donovan’s warm smile of encouragement.
Both Donovan and Corie—dark-haired and tall and long of limb—and Lindsay and Jared—as vibrantly blond and blue-eyed a pair as she’d ever seen—made such striking couples. Just looking at them gave Marguerite fresh hope that one day she, too, might find such love and happiness. She did feel less anxious now that she was fairly surrounded by them as they moved through the front door and down the stone steps to the waiting carriage.
A magnificent carriage, all glossy and black, and bearing the Earl of Dovercourt’s family crest, that would carry them to King Street for Marguerite’s first ball of the Season. They had only just arrived in London and already the very pinnacle of society had been breached by illustrious family connections, Donovan’s brother and sister-in-law, Nigel and Charlotte, the Duke and Duchess of Arundale, awaiting them at Almack’s.
Almack’s. Feeling slightly queasy again, Marguerite nevertheless lifted her chin as Corie squeezed her hand and Lindsay smiled brightly at her.
“You look beautiful, Marguerite! Never lovelier. I can tell already it’s going to be the most wonderful night!”
***
Surrounded by well-dressed lords and ladies he had never seen before while his father’s nephew, Sir Russell Scott, made introductions right and left, Walker was certain that he faced the most unendurable of nights.
In fact, he was already eager to depart the overwarm assembly room with its crush of London high society and wide-eyed, blushing young women being thrust toward him from every turn.
“Lord Summerlin, you must meet our daughter Priscilla!”
“My daughter Amaryllis is so very anxious to meet you, my lord!”
“Will you trod upon my toe, madam?” came another woman’s indignant cry. “My husband and I were waiting here first—Lord Summerlin, if you would be so gracious as to spare a dance tonight for our daughter Lady Caroline?”
“God help me, Russell, is there nowhere we can take refuge?” Walker said in a gruff aside to the baronet, who was eight years his senior. Tall and lean and with a decided haughty demeanor and piercing brown eyes, Russell had been charged by the duke with the task of squiring Walker about London for the next few weeks. Yet, as if his cousin hadn’t heard him, he continued to steer Walker through the very middle of the brightly lit assembly room while the crowd around them only grew thicker.
A portly gentleman and his equally stout wife suddenly planted themselves right in front of him, bowing and curtseying with great deference.
“Lord Summerlin,” Russell began an introduction, “the Marquess and Marchioness of Washbury and their two daughters, Lady April and Lady May—”
“April and May, truly?” Walker whispered in an incredulous aside to Russell.
His cousin didn’t respond, though his dry laugh meant that at least Walker had been heard this time. As the two plump young women pirouetted in front of him in their giddiness to make his acquaintance, Walker could swear Russell was smirking…though he suspected more at Walker’s evident discomfort than any amusement at the young ladies’ overeager behavior.
Why wouldn’t the bastard smirk? Pretend deafness to Walker’s agitated request? Not too long agohe, Sir Russell Scott, had been the Duke of Summerlin’s heir presumptive to his title and fortune.
Now with Walker’s return to true home and family, everything for the man had changed. Russell had shown no outward displeasure at having to accompany Walker to London, but Walker was beginning to suspect now that he had little intention of easing his entry into society. As another eager-eyed young woman was thrust toward him, Walker had finally had enough.
While the orchestra struck up a waltz, he nodded gallantly to all around him and then began to forge his own way through the throng with a startled Russell following behind him.
“Alexander, wait!”
His jaw clenched tightly, Walker didn’t wait, nor did he stop until he’d reached the opposite, and less crowded, end of the room. Only then did he turn around so abruptly that Russell nearly collided with him. Clearly affronted, his cousin drew himself up and tugged with irritation at his waistcoat. Sweat beaded his prominent brow, his dark brown hair damp at the temples.
“Really, Alexander—”
“Walker. Call me Walker.”
“Nothere, my lord cousin. You’re Alexander, the future Duke of Summerlin, so you might as well grow accustomed to everyone calling you by that name…including myself.”
Deciding then and there that growing accustomed to any of what surrounded him would be more difficult than he had imagined, Walker said nothing further as he surveyed the massive room. It wasn’t a hard thing given his height, and he could see at a glance that Jared and Lord Donovan had not yet arrived.
Where the devil were they? It seemed that everyone he’d met thus far at Almack’s on this Wednesday evening had no qualms about his former life as an enemy of the Crown…so clearly immense wealth, position, and a Prince Regent’s pardon had triumphed over treason. Yet it would be a relief to at last see some familiar faces among this milling throng.
