She closed and opened her mouth again. “I— I—”
If she refused him it would be hilarious. It would be talked about in drawing rooms and ballrooms for years. He held her gaze, willing her to do as she wished, to refuse him if she wanted to. Blue, so very blue. Her eyes were a pale, clear blue and her features so delicately pretty.
“If you wish, Your Grace,” she finally managed, nodding her head and bobbing an awkward curtsy. He held her hand tighter and led her to the center of the room as her gaping brother looked on.
The set began just as they arrived, as if the other dancers had been waiting for them. Miss Barrett grimaced, flubbing very badly the first pair of turns. “I’m afraid I don’t dance well,” she said.
“You dance wonderfully.” He gave her a nudge through the next step so she didn’t turn the wrong way. She shot him a harried look that rather amused him. He caught a glimpse of his mother seated on the periphery with Mrs. Lyndon, all color drained from her face.
He grinned at Miss Barrett simply to goad his mother as they moved through the formations of the country dance. Over, under, turn left, turn right. He found dancing extremely boring, but partnering Miss Barrett livened up the proceedings. There were always stray arms to grab and adjustments in balance to keep him alert. His partner was grim-faced and silent, not once engaging him in a conversation about Mongol hordes, or Viking or Pictish hordes, or any other type of horde. For his part, he murmured encouragements when he wasn’t managing her unruly arms and dodging the trods of her feet.
In addition to her lack of natural coordination, they were confounded by a marked difference in size. Until now he’d only seen her under a desk, or across the room where perspective was harder to judge. He was tall like his father and used to peering down at women, but Miss Barrett was shorter than most. Her chin barely reached the height of his chest and her hands were like little hummingbirds in his oversized grasp. She must find his hands monstrous; she eyed them frequently while they danced. At one point she turned the wrong way and collided with him. He righted her and she stopped short in the middle of a promenade.
“I am the very worst dancer,” she said.
“Nonsense. You move with rare eloquence.” She rejected this lie with a thunderous frown. “Perhaps we should take some refreshments instead,” he suggested.
Miss Barrett agreed emphatically with that idea. He had the feeling she would have fled the drawing room if he hadn’t tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. He led her to the punch bowl, nodding in response to Lady Darlington’s smile, and got Miss Barrett a glass of punch she appeared too overwrought to consume. People pretended not to watch them but they watched nonetheless, and Miss Barrett clearly yearned for escape. He might have let her go at that point with a bow and a polite “good evening.” He wondered why on earth he did not.
Instead he asked, “How are you enjoying your books?”
A flush bloomed on her cheeks. “I— Well—about that, Your Grace…thank you for not gossiping.”
“I abhor gossip.”
“I do, too.” Her pleased look warmed him. “To answer your question, as a student of history I found the books fascinating.”
“A student of history? I am glad to hear it. You’ve finished them already?”
“Yesterday,” she admitted.
“And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, that one small head could carry all she knew,” he quoted in a fit of whimsy.
Miss Barrett looked alarmed. “I am not that intelligent.”
It was a lie every bit as false as his lie about her dancing. She clamped her mouth shut, as if some monologue on the origins and habits of Mongol hordes might otherwise escape her. She was, as his mother had warned, woefully strange in manners, which disquieted and fascinated him at the same time. He took her cup and placed it on a nearby table.
“Miss Barrett, did you know our hosts own several paintings of historical interest? May I escort you to see them?”
She stared up at him. He felt a twitch at his lips, a smile not called up from some sense of politeness or propriety, but a true smile. She smiled back, then her face clouded.
“Is it entirely proper?”
“To view your hosts’ paintings? Of course. They are just down the hall outside this room.”
“Then yes, please. I would love to see them.”
He offered his arm and she took it, holding herself stiffly beside him. She was worried about propriety, was she? His days of seducing young women in secluded galleries were long over, although he did imagine for a moment what it might be like to pull Miss Barrett into a dark corner and surprise her with a kiss. Would she react with a slap? A swoon? Not Miss Barrett of the Mongol hordes. She would more likely glower at him until he stopped.
He looked down and patted her gloved hand, trying to communicate her safety in his care. They left the brightly lit drawing room and entered the wide hallway. It was darker there, but adequately illuminated with lamps. The flickering light reflected off her disarranged hair. His fingers ached to set a couple of errant curls to rights, but it was not something a gentleman would do with any lady other than his wife or mistress.
“Here, Miss Barrett,” he said, stopping at the first one. “A portrait depicting St. Joan of Arc.”
She regarded the painting critically. “It is not how I would imagine her.”
“Oh?” He had viewed this rendition of Jeanne d’Arc before and found her stark, severe expression moving. “She was not like an English lady,” he explained. “She would not have a silk gown and her hair done up in curls. She lived long ago in France.”
“It’s not that I think she should look like the ladies back in the drawing room,” sniffed Miss Barrett. “I am not an idiot.”
Court felt laughter bubble up in his throat. He grunted to disguise it, rocking back on his heels. “I did not mean to insinuate—”
“I think the artist made her too pretty.” She stepped closer, her arms at her sides, still staring at the painting. “Joan of Arc was a fierce warrior. I often wonder how she did it.”
“Did what?”
“Convinced all those men to follow her, to fight and give their lives under her command. She commanded armies of men,” she said, turning to him. “I wonder how.”
A thought lodged in his brain at that moment: it was most certainly a blessing Miss Barrett did not know how.
As it turned out, her knowledge of Joan of Arc put his to shame. She told him all she knew of the woman’s birth, childhood, political machinations, and eventual burning at the stake, while he occasionally contributed a polite “Imagine that,” or “Fascinating.” At last Miss Barrett lost interest and he led her to the next painting.
The work depicted a Persian prince surrounded by a harem of voluptuous slaves. Nude voluptuous slaves. The women sprawled on cushions and caressed one another while the prince surveyed them all, master of his domain. Court enjoyed the painting’s sensual overtones, but in the company of Miss Barrett it created an awkward situation, not least because his lewd mind found her robust figure not unlike those of the prince’s lush concubines, and Court momentarily pictured her there among them.
“What do you think of this work, Miss Barrett?” He cleared his throat as she studied it, adding, “It is composed in an appealing baroque style.”
She considered it for a long moment. “Yes.” Tentatively. Then, “Yes, it is very moving,” with an ardent nod of her head. “I should very much like to lie around all day on pillows like those women. Although it might grow tedious after a week or two.”
Court stifled a smile. “Tedious indeed,” he said. “You prefer to stay busy?”
“I do prefer it. Although idleness can be pleasant enough in the right circumstances. And with the right company,” she added, pointing out two embracing women. “They appear to be particular friends.”
Court’s lips twitched. “Shall we move on?”
They lingered next over a series of expertly crafted landscapes, which di
d not seem to interest Miss Barrett very much. Then they came to the large canvas at the end of the hall, a rendering of Camelot, King Arthur, Lancelot and his knights. She made an ecstatic sound.
“Do you enjoy the Arthurian legends?” he asked.
“I love them. I’ve read all the books I could find about King Arthur and Guinevere and the druids and priestesses and all those myths and legends.” Her excitement delighted him, although no gently-reared lady would ever admit to being so well read. She studied the detailed painting while he stood silent, reluctant to interrupt her thoughts. Finally she turned back to him. “Do you think they really happened? The things that are written in those legends?”
She sounded wistful, as if she hoped they had. “I suppose some of the events really happened,” he said, “while other parts were embellished or contrived. The magic parts, for instance.”
“You don’t believe in magic, Your Grace?”
“No,” he told her truthfully. “Do you?”
She turned back to the painting. “I suppose not, although I wish I did. It is so pleasant a fantasy, that there is magic and mysticism all around us. But I haven’t found it to be so. I suppose I lean more toward belief in fate, and chance.”
“Fate and chance?” Court raised a brow. “Are they not in opposition to one another?”
She pondered this, a small wrinkle forming between her brows. “I think we all have fates to which we must submit ourselves,” she said. “But we can also grasp at chances when they come to us.”
“And perhaps change our fates?”
“We must try, mustn’t we?” She regarded him as if he held the answers, but in truth, he’d never given much thought to any of this. He had been born to a fate of course, that of the Duke of Courtland. She had been born the daughter of a lesser—and peculiar—viscount. Her fate, his fate.
“You are very profound, Miss Barrett,” said Court. “I have never conversed with any lady quite the same as you.”
He meant it as praise, but frustration flitted across her face. “People always say that. That I’m strange.”
“I did not say you were strange,” he corrected her. “I said you were profound. Whenever I ponder magic, fate, and chance hereafter, I shall recall this fascinating conversation.”
She tilted her head as if questioning whether he mocked her. He did not mock. In fact, he did not feel ready to return her to the greater company as he should. “Come, there is a striking painting in the ballroom. I believe you would appreciate it very much.”
He drew her hand over his arm and she followed a little hesitantly. If odd Miss Barrett hesitated, Court should certainly know better. Why was he doing this? Perhaps because he’d had so little excitement in his life of late. As they walked at a leisurely pace around the corner and down another wide hallway, she did not prattle on as a typical young lady would, and he did not feel compelled to fill the silence. He enjoyed the novelty of strolling beside her lost in his thoughts…too many of which centered on her voluptuous attributes and that damned harem painting.
When they arrived at the Darlington ballroom, there was little light with which to see the painting. He walked in anyway, turning in the expansive, tastefully decorated chamber. When it was lit for a grand ball, as it would be at the conclusion of the house party, a thousand candles would illuminate the space, but at the moment only a single lamp cast shadows for any guest or servant passing through.
He turned to Miss Barrett, who waited by the door. “Are you afraid of the dark?”
She shook her head. “No, Your Grace. I am afraid of ballrooms.”
He laughed at her jest—or perhaps it wasn’t a jest—and beckoned her to join him. They would be here only a short time. Not that he believed Miss Barrett would try to entrap him in marriage, but her brother would in a heartbeat. He pushed that thought from his mind and crossed to pick up the lamp.
“Come.” He led Miss Barrett to a large painting in the center of the far wall and held up the light so she might see it.
She recognized the subject at once. “It is Caesar in the Roman Senate.”
“Yes.”
“It’s one of the few paintings I’ve seen of Caesar when he’s not being stabbed to death,” she said. “There is much more to his story than his assassination.”
“I agree. I find Roman history interesting. What I know of it, anyway.”
“Did you know there is an old Roman wall here?” She turned to him, eyes shining in the lamplight. “Well, not here, but north of here? It is very ancient. Thousands of years old.”
“I did know. Have you been to see it?”
Her face fell. “No, not yet. My brother will not take me.”
Court would have escorted her there if she’d asked him, taken an entire day to arrange the outing only to assuage her disappointment. Fortunately, she did not ask him. She was engrossed in the painting, her thoughts someplace far away. How novel, a young woman with such concentration, such intelligence to animate her.
He moved away from her because he had to. He prowled the shadowed perimeter of the ballroom, pretending to study the decorative wainscoting, the plentiful sconces affixed to the walls. When he was the length of the room away from her, he turned to discover the full force of her open gaze. It was enough to give a man thoughts, the way she stared at him across the darkness. In his peripheral vision he saw a footman enter and then back out again.
“Leave it,” he said when the bewigged man moved to close the doors. With a bow, the servant fled.
Miss Barrett stared at the door, at the retreating servant. “We should probably return to the company.”
Something guarded in her expression helped him regain his wits, or at least his sense of propriety. He carried the lamp back to its table near the wall.
“In truth, we’ve been gone too long.” He straightened his waistcoat and coat before he turned back to her. “I shall escort you back to the drawing room.”
“Thank you. And thank you for showing me the paintings.”
“It was my pleasure.”
He walked back with her down the hall, aware of her warmth, her closeness. Her fingertips tightened on his arm almost imperceptibly as they passed the harem painting, or perhaps he imagined it. She helped herself to another long glance. He enjoyed her freshness and curiosity. In fact, he had deeply enjoyed her company, but for appearance’s sake, they needed to part ways—quickly. Publicly. When she told him at the door she would rather retire for the evening, he urged her back into the drawing room so everyone could see them, and delivered her back to her brother’s side.
Court hoped it would be enough to hold the gossips at bay. They had been away from the group far longer than was appropriate. It was rare he behaved so clumsily, so foolishly, especially at a large party such as this. He decided from then on he would avoid her as much as possible. He really had to.
For her sake and his.
Chapter Three: Wish
Harmony thought the Darlingtons’ garden would be pleasant indeed if she could explore its charms in solitude, but instead she sat with the ladies, taking the sun and awaiting the gentlemen’s return from the hunt. Nearby a lake glistened, surrounded by woods to the edge of the property. Flowers bloomed in a landscaped border and paper lanterns twisted in the breeze. It was very picturesque, all of it, but Harmony’s peace was shattered by the constant badgering of her friends.
“You cannot tell us anything else?” Juliette pouted. “He did not act the rake in the slightest? No rude comments? No lurid glances?”
“No,” Harmony said. “He was not lurid at all.”
“Are you sure you’re not leaving anything out?” Viola leaned closer. “We won’t tell.”
“I have told you all I can remember, many times over.”
The Duke of Courtland this, the Duke of Courtland that. For a group of ladies so repulsed by the Duke of Courtland, they were obsessed with every aspect of the man.
“Are his eyes really green and blue?” Mirabel asked. �
�I wish I could see them close up.”
“He has beautiful eyes,” Harmony said quietly. “Very kind eyes.”
“Kind?” Sybil huffed. “If he was kind he would be civil to the other guests.”
“You mean civil to you,” said Juliette. “He is civil to his gentleman friends, and the Darlingtons.”
“He was civil to Harmony,” Mirabel laughed.
“He should be civil to everyone.” Sybil flushed a hot pink and fanned herself. “I don’t believe he is kind or polite. In fact, I know he is not,” she added, raising an eyebrow.
Juliette snickered. “You are only jealous he did not ask you to dance.”
“I most certainly am not. If he had asked me to dance, I would have said no.”
“Jealous, jealous, jealous,” Juliette taunted under her breath.
This tedious banter had gone on unchecked for a week, ever since His Grace had introduced himself and asked her to dance. She had gone from the least respected member of her social group to the most admired, although in her opinion she was being admired for a very silly thing.
And since that day nearly a week ago, he had not so much as spoken to her, nor looked at her, nor smiled in her direction. He went out with the men to hunt and fish in the day time, and kept to cards and the smoking room at night. From time to time he’d make an appearance in Lady Darlington’s drawing room to watch the dancing, but he did not ask her or any other lady to dance, even the older women who openly flirted with him. After a time, too short a time, he’d disappear back into the side rooms and the young ladies would wink at one another and whisper behind their fans about his showy clothes and his too-long hair, and his big hands.
Harmony did not agree that his clothing was showy. He actually dressed in a rather conservative style. His clothing only appeared showy for being so expertly fitted to His Grace’s compelling physique. The ladies talked about that too, until Harmony’s head would burst from it. His Grace’s broad shoulders, His Grace’s stern features, His Grace’s fine legs revealed in alluring detail by his tight-fitting trousers. And yes, his shoulders were broad, his features were stern, his legs were fine, and his hands were…obscenely large.
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