She was not angry. She was worried. And worry for Valeria was more dangerous than anger. Anger was hot, clean, and burned fast. Worry was cold. It lived in your chest and grew roots.
Edward was not Gordon. Valeria knew that. She knew it in her bones and in every part of her that had learned to read men the way women read novels.
But he had left. And leaving was leaving, no matter who did it.
She sat at her writing desk, staring at a blank page. She dipped the quill.
Dear Father,
I am to be married again. His name is Edward Langton, the Duke of Welford. The ton calls him the Hound.
He is a good man. He painted flowers on Gordon's portrait because he said Gordon did not deserve a clean forehead.
I think you would like him, Father. I think you would like him very much.
She folded it and tucked it in the drawer. She was not ready to send it. But the words existed now. Real things were harder to take back than imagined ones.
Come back. And when you come back, stay.
CHAPTER 21
The ballroom at Thornhill had not been used in four years. Gordon had preferred his study. The doors had stayed shut. Dust had settled on the chandeliers, and the parquet floor had become dull.
It did not look dull now.
Caroline had worked a miracle. Candles everywhere, hundreds of them, in iron sconces, crystal holders, and tall candelabras that threw warm light across the room. White roses climbed the columns. Gold ribbon wound through the greenery. The musicians were tuning their instruments in the gallery. The windows were open, and the evening air drifted through, cool and clean.
Valeria stood at the top of the staircase in her blue dress. The one Caroline had commissioned from Madame Beaumont. Gold thread along the neckline. Off the shoulder. The white mask was in her hand. She had not put it on yet.
Below her, the ballroom was filling. Masks everywhere. Lord Barton had come as something vaguely Venetian. Sir Humphrey’s mask appeared to be a very grumpy cat. Mr. Ashworth’s mask had a quill attached to it, which was both impractical and entirely in character. The young Viscount, whose name she still could not remember, had painted his mask the wrong color and was trying to fix it with a napkin.
Caroline stood at the bottom of the stairs, directing traffic. She was not wearing a mask because no mask could accommodate both her face and her opinions, and her opinions took priority. Richard stood behind her with a patient expression that had become a permanent fixture.
John hung by the punch bowl. His mask was a plain black half-face, simple and elegant, pushed up onto his forehead so he could drink. He raised his glass when he saw Valeria.
She scanned the room. Every face. Every mask. Every shape in the candlelight.
Edward was not there.
She checked the windows, the doorways, and the corridors she could see from the stairs. She was looking for a man who was taller than everyone else in the room and who stood near exits and did not wear waistcoats, and whose presence made other men take a step backward.
He was not in the ballroom. He was not in the corridors. He was nowhere.
Sir Marcus appeared at her elbow. He was wearing a silver mask that made him look like an extremely determined fish. He asked if she would do him the honor of the first dance. His voice was hopeful. His eyes were not. He already knew the answer.
“I am waiting for someone, Sir Marcus.”
“The Duke of Welford, I presume.”
“You presume correctly.”
He bowed.
He was gracious about it. She would give him that. He had been gracious about everything since the wedding announcement. He had stayed for the remaining games. He had been polite at meals. He had not once mentioned his stables, which was for him an act of considerable restraint.
“He is a fortunate man,” he said, then walked away.
Valeria watched him go and felt a small pang of guilt that she dismissed immediately, because guilt was a luxury she could not afford tonight.
