She nearly lost her punch right then and there.
***
From clear across the ballroom, Milton watched the insufferable Lady Stanton take Wellesley’s place. Lizzie would survive the dull sycophant, same as he’d survived the boring swell he’d just sent packing. Milton could talk business with toffs, but he didn’t know how to make idle chit chat. That’s what a wife was for: to ward off the nobs who forever made him feel ten inches tall. He both longed to bethese preening peacocks and simultaneously murder them.
Meanwhile, his sire’s weighty presence cast a heady glow the Duke’s guests were drawn to like moths to a flame. They’d come to curry favor, to be seen and heard and acknowledged. Milton had come because he’d had no choice. To refuse such an invitation was social suicide—to accept was his own private hell.
He knew where the Duke of Lennox sat, but he refused to look the man’s way. He’d not acknowledge a father who did not acknowledge his own son. Two could play that game, though he wondered again why his invitation had been sent. He doubted very much Lady Stanton had swayed Lennox. At most, she’d simply planted the idea.
He was envious of his friend, Wellesley, for having not only a dukedom to his name but a loving duchess for his wife. His own Baroness was more enemy than ally now; Elizabeth would sooner help a louse than assist him this night.
They’d made their appearance. Could they not already leave? How long must one stay at these affairs before one was permitted to vanish? Perhaps he could use his wife’s condition as an excuse. God knew she employed it often enough. He was about to go and fetch Lizzie when Lady Stanton handed his wife off to his bloodyhalf-brother, heir to all that should rightfully have been his.
***
Elizabeth had no desire to dance again with the unpleasant Lord Mathers, yet she’d no choice but to accept his arm, foisted on her by Lady Stanton. Had the woman no tact? Milton would be livid; she sensed her husband’s fierce frown from clear across the room.
“I am so pleased you chose to attend tonight’s ball, Lady Milton.” Lord Mathers embodied that particular style of ‘slippery polite’ Elizabeth loathed about theTon. “What do you think of my betrothed? Is she not exquisite?”
Extremely accomplished … impeccable bloodline … a perfect duchess …He droned on about his fiancée’s attributes, though Elizabeth did not, in all honesty, know which attending lady even was this man’s intended.
She wanted rid of him. Fast.
“May I ask, Lord Mathers, why you do not dance with your bride-to-be?” Their eyes met. “It must be a chore to suffer my person, sir, when you might instead enjoy the charms of your affianced.”
“Oh, it is no chore at all, Lady Milton.” His tone turned canny. “Quite the contrary, dancing with you brings me great joy, for it allows me to present you to my father, who has long wished to assess your own fineattributes.” And the obnoxiousman turn-twirled her into an audience with the Duke of Lennox, seated like royalty at one end of the dance floor.
Elizabeth dug in her heels, but Mathers urged her forward.
“Your Grace.” He spoke loud enough that nearby heads turned. “I present to you Lady Milton, the Earl of Winthrop’s daughter.”
Lennox’s eyes met Elizabeth’s with cold appraisal. She knew their ice-blue color. They were her husband’s eyes, precisely.
“Lady Milton, I am delighted we meet, at last.”
“Your Grace.” She dipped into a genuflect.
“You are enjoying the evening.” It was less question, more command.
“Very much, Your Grace. Congratulations on your son’s engagement,” she murmured.
“I have not seen you dance yet with your husband, Lady Milton. Did he not accompany you?”
How she hated this man in this moment. “My husband does not enjoy dancing, Your Grace, though I assure you he is in attendance.”
“I am glad to hear it, Lady Milton, though a man should never leave his wife alone too long upon a dance floor.”
His insinuation stole her breath.
“Happily, my husband does not suffer your concern, Your Grace.” She would not let this duke insult her or her husband.
“I find that most surprising, Lady Milton, for Baron of Milton seems most keen on propriety, given his ratherhumbleorigin.”
She wanted to punch His Grace for such thinly veiled insult, yet Lord Mathers’s grip on her arm held fast. Elizabeth prayed Milton remained too far removed—or far too occupied—to hear a word of this exchange.
“Your Grace, I believe you do not know my husband in the least.”
“I know he married a spitfire.” The Duke’s eyes raked her person, lingering at her spectacles. “An ill-bred wife who’s altogether lacking. But then, Baron of Milton’s own breeding lacks class.”
