“Ah. I see,” his mother said, much more slowly than any other word she had uttered thus far that day, or even that week.
“So you have spoken to her father? He has given his permission? You have offered for her and she has accepted?” she asked, perking up a bit in her chair.
But while she was sitting taller, Wesley felt himself slowly sinking into his seat.
Do I lie?
No, he realized. If he lied, and told his mother that the engagement had been settled, she would spread the news the moment they left the dinner table. By the following afternoon, all of her friends would know, and they would spread the news to their friends, alerting all of the ton to an engagement that had not yet been arranged.
“We are waiting on word from her father. Lady Sophia is, or was, involved in a courtship with the Earl of Montrose. Her father is figuring out how best to handle things so as to preserve the Lady’s reputation. Lady Sophia has sent me a letter ensuring her father will send for me on Wednesday. I will meet with him, and then propose.”
“Ah. I see. So it is not yet set in stone. Nothing is fixed.”
“It is fixed, Mother,” he assured her. “Between Lady Sophia and I. We have declared our love and devotion to each other. We will marry.”
“Of course, my dear,” his mother said, smiling wider as she reached over and patted his hand. “Congratulations. I cannot wait to tell my friends. And I will write to Lady Alicia early tomorrow and tell her not to come. She sounds a lovely girl, but I suppose she will make some other gentleman happy.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Wesley said. The argument was over, and he had won, and yet as he sat back in his chair and began to eat his now-cold fish, he could not help still feeling uneasy. Something was unsettling him, but he knew not what. Not yet, at least.
Chapter 15
A ball? And on Friday, of all days?
Sophia groaned as she looked again at the piece of paper in her hand. Printed with beautiful calligraphy was an invitation from the Dowager Duchess of Bersard for a ball that would take place at the end of the week, on Friday.
Why would she host a ball so close behind the Duke’s death? How unusual. Perhaps it is because of Wesley’s new title.
There were advantages to this, of course. She would get to see Wesley nine days before planned, which would do much to calm her nerves which increased with every day she was away from him.
But she would not be able to show her relief upon seeing him. She would not be able to spirit him away to a room where they could embrace, talk, even kiss, perhaps.
No, instead she would have to attend the ball acting as though she was not in love, nor in the process of affiancing herself to Wesley. She would only be able to dance with him twice, only be able to chat with him when appropriate, and would not be allowed to let her eyes wander to his person. Someone would notice, and that someone would spread rumors. And they could not have that.
Just the idea of having to hold back her feelings for an entire evening made her shudder with displeasure. She usually hated balls, but this one would be truly torturous. She was already frightfully nervous about her engagement with Wesley. Every time she asked her father how his “plotting” was going, he shooed her away with a scowl, which did nothing to calm her anxieties. Indeed, it was one of the main factors serving to increase them.
She was not sleeping, was not eating, and kept imagining that she saw Wesley in the shelves of the library. It was her mind being mischievous, she knew, acting out its keen desire to see Wesley, and in her favorite spot in the house. The spot where their love had been cemented amidst the many tomes that had kept her company throughout her eighteen years of life.
By Friday, she would be a quivering wreck, she knew, no more capable of even breathing than she was of dancing a quadrille.
She was quite worried she would try to embrace Wesley the moment she saw him. She would have to repeat the rules of proper decorum between lords and ladies over and over to herself as she walked through the room, else she was liable to embarrass them both and cause the very scandal her father was working so assiduously to avoid.
And then there was Lord Montrose. For he would almost certainly be in attendance. She had not seen him since he had flown so hastily from the house earlier that week. She knew her father had planned to speak to him at some point, to smooth over any residual conflict over the fact that she had so unceremoniously cast him aside. But had he talked to him yet?
Or would Lord Montrose be shooting daggers her way the moment she entered the ballroom, increasing her nerves only further?
Perhaps I ought to take some smelling salts with me.
The Dowager Duchess of Bersard was ensconced on a sofa in the morning room of the Bersard townhouse, checking over the list of foods the cook was planning to prepare for the ball, when her son walked in.
Seeing his face reminded her of her husband, for both gentlemen shared a strong jaw, dark brows and hazel eyes. When she looked at Wesley, she saw in him a younger version of her late husband, and this put a smile on her face.
She smiled at him, thinking longingly of his father as Wesley took a seat across from her.
“My, but you have really thrown yourself into the planning of this ball, Mother. Are you sure it ought to be held so soon? Usually it takes you months to plan for something like this, and here you are attempting to pull it off in only a matter of days.”
Caroline looked at her son and tried not to show just how much that comment annoyed her.
“Of course I am able to handle it all. I used to love planning our yearly ball, you know. It was the highlight of my year, and since I can no longer look for a wife for you, I must find a new way to occupy my time.”
Caroline was pleased at the flash of guilt on her son’s face.
“Of course, Mother. I did not mean to imply you are not capable. You are eminently so,” he said with an uneasy laugh, still looking guilty.
Good, he should feel guilty, after what he did the other day. Finding his own wife, when I was perfectly capable of the task.
Truly, Caroline had not cared one way or another who Wesley married, as long as he did indeed marry. She wanted a wedding to plan, then grandbabies to visit and care for. Now that her husband was gone, her duties as a Duchess were at an end. She needed things to keep her busy, and Wesley was the only provider of them.
What she was cross about was not his choice of wife, precisely, but his choosing of a lady without so much as mentioning it to her first. He did not know it, but his father had run nearly every single one of his decisions by her. He trusted her even more than their steward, Berkeley. His Grace deferred to her whenever he was struggling with something, and she always delivered just the answer he was looking for.
She had expected that Wesley, who seemed so unenthused about the dukedom, would follow suit. How surprised was she, then, to find that her son, despite not having much of an interest in duty before, took to his newfound title with so much energy. Meetings with Parliament, the Duke of Wellingson, and, apparently, secret meetings with Lady Sophia. He had been busy indeed, and that was good.
What was not nearly so good was that he had shared none of this with her. He did not tell her about his meetings, did not regale her with tales from each of the balls he attended. He kept so much to himself, only giving her the barest of summaries, and only after she truly begged for them.
Wesley was too independent, and, based on the arrangement with Lady Sophia, Caroline was guessing that his wife would be the same.
She had feigned surprise when Wesley mentioned her the previous evening at dinner, but in truth, she knew all about Lady Sophia. She had a reputation as a bluestocking and was an heiress in her own right.
Lady Swinton had told her all about Lady Sophia the day after the meeting with Mr. Tennant, when they were making a list of marriage prospects for Wesley.
Lady Swinton understood her plight. She understood her desire to be needed, to be relied upon, because Lady Swinton was
the same way with her own children—three daughters and a son. The daughters she released into the care of their husbands, for they did not affect the family title.
Therefore, her son bore the brunt of her attentions, and with admirable tolerance. Lady Swinton had helped him to choose a quiet, meek young lady who had thus far born him three children and allowed Lady Swinton to dictate everything from the estate where they spent Yuletide to the children’s governess.
Caroline was getting so tired of Wesley dragging his feet on the matter, dancing with ladies she and her friends had personally selected, and yet showing no interest whatsoever. The season was nearly over, and a move needed to be made if he was to be married by summer’s start.
When Lady Marcus had mentioned Lady Alicia earlier that week at tea, saying she was a quiet, beautiful daughter of an Earl with a good fortune and reputation, Caroline had practically jumped for joy. She was perfect, exactly the sort of wife she needed for Wesley.
Wesley was in a meeting with Berkeley the day of the ball when a knock sounded at his study door.
He and Berkeley were in the midst of finally settling on a gardener for the estate in Cornwall. It was his last piece of business for the day, and then he was planning to take Phillip on a long walk before the ball that evening. He needed to exercise out the nerves that had plagued him for days.
“Wesley? It is your mother. Please, could you let me in?” a voice sounded through the door.
Wesley smiled at Berkeley before getting up and walking, very slowly, to the door. Phillip stood up from where he had been lying by the hearth and followed him, his feet thudding gently on the carpet.
“Yes, Mother?” Wesley asked as he opened the door enough to see his mother’s face. Any more, and she would take it as an invitation to enter the room. He knew this, because his very first week as Duke, his mother had tried just that, pushing herself into a meeting that ought to be have been between just him and Berkeley. He had learned quickly not to fall for that trick again.
“My dear, I was wondering if you might cut your meeting short. I am in dire need of your assistance with something for the ball,” she said, her eyes wide to emphasize the gravity of her statement.
“Mother,” Wesley began, patiently. “You know I am not to be interrupted. This is my last meeting of the day before—”
“Yes, yes, before you take that silly beast on a walk,” she said, casting a glare in Phillip’s direction. Wesley knew his mother had never liked the dog, never liked the idea of keeping any animals in the house. Phillip, who shared her distaste, growled at her.
“Exactly. Before I take Phillip on my walk. So I really do need to finish with Berkeley. Can you not get one of the footman to help you?” he asked, looking behind her. Normally there was at least one servant passing by at any given time, but the hall seemed to be oddly deserted.
Rolling her eyes, she huffed her displeasure. “Fine. Leave me to struggle on my own.”
And with that, she turned and walked away, her skirts swishing haughtily behind her.
“Forgive me, Berkeley,” Wesley said as he shut the door and turned to resume his seat behind the desk. He was feeling thoroughly embarrassed and, once again, infantilized. Could he really not even conduct business now without his mother interfering? Had she been this disrespectful to his father?
Father never would have allowed such impertinence.
“It is absolutely fine, Your Grace. Now, back to the gardener,” Berkeley said, as he adjusted his glasses on his nose.
“Yes, back to the gardener.”
But though Wesley and Berkeley resumed their conversation, Wesley’s attention returned to that strange feeling in his gut, the one that had not left him since his talk with his mother four evenings ago.
Chapter 16
Lord Montrose did not have high expectations for the Dowager Duchess of Bersard’s ball. For one thing, he detested the Duke of Bersard, and therefore detested the idea of attending anything that necessitated his being in the same confined space as the Duke.
For another, Lady Sophia would most likely be in attendance. And he really did not want to have to speak to her. Not after the humiliation he had suffered at her hands, or rather, her embrace with the Duke, only days ago.
Getting drunk had done very little to mend the wound in his pride, for though he was only going to marry Lady Sophia for her money and station, her rejection cut him deeply indeed. That she had found affection with another gentleman who was so horribly dressed and so, well, boring, made him wonder if perhaps he was not quite the eligible gentleman he had always thought himself.
It was with such low spirits that he entered the Dowager Duchess’ ballroom. The room was already thick with perfumed lords and ladies laughing, gossiping, and plotting marriages between their offspring.
David spotted not a single friend in the bunch. None of his gambling friends attended such galas. Most were married, and the few who were not had long ago had their reputations so sullied that soirees like these did not accept them.
The refreshment table was, however, positively heaving with comestibles, and so David angled himself there, hoping that a confection and a glass of wine would help to liven him up.
He had worn his seventh-best waistcoat for the event, a red velvet brocade with gold buttons that had real emeralds affixed to their centers. The waistcoat had been specially crafted for him on his last trip to Italy, but as brocade was slowly going out of fashion, David only broke it out when he didn’t care what he looked like.
Which was a good thing, because as he was walking to the refreshments, a gentleman to his right was pushed forward by an unseen person. That gentleman, who was holding a glass full of burgundy wine, lurched forward and spilled the contents of his glass directly onto David, or rather, David’s waistcoat.
“Good God!” he yelled, throwing his hands up as the offender stumbled backward.
“My Lord, please accept my apologies. I was pushed, and there was not time to break my fall,” the gentleman said, and David looked more closely and recognized him from Eton. The gentleman had been a few years younger than David, with a perpetually fearful look on his face that invited teasing.
“It is fine,” David said already feeling the burgundy soak through the thin velvet to his white shirt beneath. The waistcoat might yet be saved, but the shirt beneath it would have to be turned into a rag for the servants. Red wine would never come out of fresh silk.
“Please, My Lord, allow me to—” the gentleman started, but his voice was drowned out by that of a young lady from somewhere behind him.
“Oh, My Lord! What have you done to that poor gentleman’s coat?!”
David did not at first see the owner of the voice, obscured as she was in the crowd. He therefore dismissed it, and the drink spiller, who he now remembered, thanks to the mysterious voice, to be named Henry Gribsby, Baron of Something or Other.
He was starting to move toward the refreshments table again, this time not in search of confectionary, but rather a butler with access to laundry services, when the voice’s owner made her appearance.
And oh, what an appearance that was.
Glistening brown hair with curls that escaped her coiffure, framing her apple-plump cheeks. Creamy skin tinged with a deep pink blush offset by the emerald of her gown. Wide, nut-brown eyes that were staring at him in fascination.
“Lord Montrose, please, let me introduce my wife’s sister, Lady Alicia Keaton.”
She is perfect. Absolutely perfect.
And as he gazed at her, all his worries fell away. David forgot all about his ruined waistcoat, his humiliation, and the fact that he did not want to be at this ball.
Because now, he very much wanted to be there, because at the ball was Lady Alicia.
The lady he had just fallen in love at first sight with.
Sophia stood with the other high-society wallflowers at the Dowager Duchess’s ball, trying to feign an interest in the latest fashions and gossip. She was miserable and s
eemed unable to hide it as she gazed around at the ton who had accepted Her Grace’s invitation. There were many young sons and daughters of the aristocrats mingling and no doubt talking marriages, bloodlines, and alliances.
There’s only one alliance I need and that’s Wesley.
She was wishing that society’s gossip would have permitted her to remain at home in the library beside a blazing fire with a hot cup of tea at her elbow and one of the books she had purchased at Marcum’s. That notion made her think of Wesley, and how they had shopped and talked of books.
She blushed to think of him fondling her ankle when they were alone at Lord Stilton’s ball.
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