Eleanor hadn’t known that dancing at a society ball had been on her list of things to do before she died. She’d avoided anything that required gross motor coordination since the day she’d watched her mother turn cartwheels across the field and tried to imitate her. She’d fallen flat on her arse and the sound of her mother’s laughter would never leave her.
But she hadn’t embarrassed herself tonight. The whirl of color, the sparkle of light, and the gentle brush of Peter’s thumb against the bodice of her dress was a cacophony of experience she held tightly as she wound through the crowd with a fresh glass of lemonade.
She had Peter to thank. He’d pulled her onto the floor before she could protest. She didn’t like to fail and, as a rule, didn’t put herself in situations where she might. But that first burst of panic had disappeared quickly.
She liked him. He seemed genuinely interested in her work. There had been none of the barely disguised condescension that she experienced when other men asked what she did with her days and, to their dismay, she told them. There had been no barely polite suggestion that she find a man to marry so that she could spend her time at home rather thanin a print room. She’d felt respected, even admired, and she found herself wishing they would find each other at the zoo again, away from the scrutiny of a nosy crowd.
Finally, she reached the half-moon arrangement of chaise longues where Lady Wharton and her coterie had established themselves to monitor the goings-on. They all stared at her, brows furrowed, lips pursed, fingers clenched around glasses, fans, and canes.
Their energy tempered Eleanor’s excitement. “Lemonade, Your Ladyship,” she said cautiously. “My apologies for the delay.” As she attempted to hand over the glass that she’d snagged from a footman, Lady Wharton grabbed Eleanor’s hand with her clawlike one.
“How do you know the duke?”
“The duke, Your Ladyship?” Lady Wharton and her friends were the only aristocrats Eleanor had spoken with.
“Theduke. The one you were dancing with.”
Pardon?The ground tilted, or her balance slipped. “Peter? He’s not a duke. He works for the government.”
Lady Wharton huffed. Her cronies tittered, and a wave of embarrassment consumed Eleanor. There was something worth knowing that she didn’t and should, and she hated that feeling.
“If ‘working for the government’ means ‘voting in the House of Lords,’ then you’re correct. He works for the government.”
The floor definitely shifted this time. Earthquakes were rare in London, but they did occur. There had been one in 1580. It was a preferable scenario to what Lady Wharton was suggesting. Surely, Peter would have told her if he was a peer—a duke, no less. He wouldn’t have let her make such a fool of herself,let her prattle on as if their lives bore any resemblance to each other’s.
“I’m sorry. To clarify, the gentleman I was just dancing with is a duke? A member of the royal family? Possibly a cousin to the queen once or twice removed?”
“Not removed at all, girl. He and the queen both spent their summers with the family at Sandringham, though I imagine they had little to discuss given their gap in ages.”
It beggared belief. He seemed sonormal, and so genuinely interested in her life. What possible reason could he have for befriending a woman who usually occupied such a different social strata?
She set her feet, trying to maintain her balance. “Just so that we’re absolutely, one hundred percent clear, Mr. Peter…” She faltered. She didn’t know his name. He’d never given her anything more than Peter.
Lady Wharton’s friends snickered. Lady Wharton shot them a silencing glare before turning back to Eleanor. “Mr. Peteris generally referred to as His Grace, the Duke of Strafford.”
The ground beneath Eleanor cracked. “The Duke ofStrafford?” Her voice broke on his name. It made sense, now, why he’d hidden his identity from her. It made sense why he’d angled for a friendship. She was his competition. He was building a business that was going to put her out of one, and was using her insight to do so. “That cur!”
The collective gasp drew stares from all around. Lady Wharton’s nostrils flared. “Miss Wright, that is not a way to describe a duke.”
“I don’t care.” Titles didn’t impress her. A person’s worth was determined by how hard they worked for what they had andhow good they were at it. Aristocrats had everything handed to them with no work at all. She sucked in a deep breath, her entire body swelling with rage. “Excuse me, Your Ladyship.”
Eleanor turned and scanned the room, looking for the duke’s dark hair and tall stature. He was talking to two women in the corner, one of whom was gesturing animatedly in Eleanor’s direction. The duke’s gaze followed. When their eyes met, he grimaced. He knew that she knew.
She marched forward, quite conscious of those staring at her. Of course people were ogling. She was a companion, an employee, a nobody who had just waltzed with a duke.
As she neared, Peter excused himself from his conversation. One of the women grabbed his hand to stop him from leaving, but he pulled it free. Both women looked at Eleanor as though they wanted to devour her, or all the knowledge there was of her, anyway.
“Eleanor,” the duke said, catching her arm and guiding her away from their audience.
“Your Grace. You work for the government?” She shook off his hand but continued in the direction he’d pushed her. She didn’t need or want witnesses for this. She pushed past the footman stationed at the balcony doors who tried, in vain, to protest their exit.
Ignoring him, she shoved the doors wide open. There were no revelers outside and the area was lit only by the chandeliers inside, the light from which filtered through the glass doors. Good. The shadows matched her mood.
“Eleanor, stop,” the duke said as she stalked to the balcony’s edge. “I didn’t technically lie. I do consider myself in the service of parliament.”
He couldn’t possibly be serious. She spun to face him. “Lyingby omission is still a lie, Your Grace. And you have no idea what it is to be ‘in service.’ For your entire life others have worked hard to provide you with what you did not work for at all.”
The furrow of his brow deepened, and he pressed his fingers into the stone with enough force that his knuckles turned white. “I won’t deny that I have some privilege. But I categorically reject the assertion that I don’t work for it.”
