“Ashmere.”
“Ashmere? How very interesting. And how long did this shelter last?”
“Two days.”
She wanted to say that they had been entirely proper. Shecouldhave said it to her mother or even to Mary. But something about Lady Norwell made it impossible to lie to her.
“Eventful, indeed. I’ll speak to your parents about this Emerton business. You shouldn’t be forced into anything.”
Cressida thanked her, though hope felt distant.
A rustle sounded behind them, fabric against hedge, and she spun around, heart racing. But there was nothing but shadows and torchlight.
They returned inside, and Lady Bardwell descended on her immediately, steering her toward a knot of women. Cressida recognized Miss Georgina Oakley, whose calculating eyes suggested predatory intelligence.
The women’s welcome carried reluctant obligation. They discussed fashions with determined superficiality.
“Have any of you read the new novel everyone’s discussing?” Cressida ventured.
Blank stares answered.
Miss Oakley glided forward, her smile venomous. “How wonderful it is to hear about your engagement, Lady Cressida. Lord Emerton is such a catch. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”
“We were just discussing eligible bachelors,” another lady said, sounding uncomfortable. “Lord Hartley, and—oh! The Duke of Ashmere is here. How unusual.”
“They say he never smiles,” someone tittered. “Like some Gothic villain. And that business with his father and uncle… both dying in a duel. How terribly scandalous.”
Cressida’s hands clenched as they dissected Theodore with casual cruelty.
“Have any of you seen Mr. Kean’s Hamlet?” she asked desperately.
“Oh yes.” Lady Sarah brightened. “The costumes were magnificent. Though all that talking about being or not being grew tedious. And really! Could the playwright at least have given us a happy ending?”
Miss Oakley’s eyes glittered. “Well, Lady Cressida has always been rather intellectual for a woman. How fortunate Lord Emerton seems willing to overlook such peculiarities. Though I do wonder if your time in the countryside might have tempered your unusual tendencies. I cannot imagine how Lord Emerton will tolerate your bluestocking ways, otherwise.”
Cressida opened her mouth to respond when her mother’s hand clamped down on her shoulder.
“Cressida was just saying she needed refreshment.”
“Yes. Lemonade sounds wonderful.” She fled, but two familiar figures intercepted her path: Lady Seymore and Lady Norwell, both wearing studied innocence.
“Lady Cressida! Your grandmother and I were reminiscing about the opera.”
They bickered with practiced ease while Cressida stood caught between them.
“Oh,” Lady Seymore said suddenly, “weren’t you heading toward the refreshments table? You mentioned wanting lemonade. Don’t let us keep you.”
As Cressida moved away, their barely suppressed giggles followed like conspirators.
The refreshments table came into view. Standing beside it, dark eyes fixed on her with devastating intensity, was Theodore.
Their gazes locked once again, and the ballroom receded.
He nodded—a single, curt acknowledgment. And it annoyed her beyond all reason.
“Your Grace.” She reached for a glass of lemonade with trembling hands.
“Lady Cressida.” His voice carried that rough edge she remembered. “I trust you’ve been well.”
