by Jane Ashford
Everyone returned to their previous conversations. It was actually a relief not to be the center of attention any longer. At first, Flora thought they were playing some kind of geography game, naming prominent places in London. Then she realized they were establishing where they’d last met, weeks ago, during the season, with bits of reminiscence about certain balls or evening parties. As she had attended none of them, she had nothing to contribute. Members of the haut ton were rather like butterflies, she thought. They hovered, vividly colorful, above the lower reaches of society. They flitted from one gorgeous locale to another, oblivious to the misfortunes that befell others not so very far away. They were stunningly decorative. After a few minutes, she caught Harriet’s admonitory eye and remembered to smile.
Flora stood and listened. She was accustomed to being the center of lively discussions at home, but she didn’t really mind being left out of this one. The topic was dull, and anyway she would be better occupied observing and analyzing the people who were to be her companions for the next month. Now that she had their names, she could put faces to the descriptions Harriet had provided on their long journey up to Northumberland.
The room was dotted with attractive young men. Well born, well heeled, well bred, Flora thought. Well behaved, well set up. No, she was stretching now. But they were all those things. Harriet had told her that they were here for Lady Victoria. Or perhaps vice versa. Good matches, in any case, lured in by the hunting and hospitality toward a possible settlement of the girl’s future. It was a common thing, Flora knew, and she couldn’t summon quite the level of derision she might have expressed in earlier years. People had to meet, after all.
Her gaze lit on Lord Robert and skipped away before he could catch her looking. He was the handsomest of them all, in her opinion. Harriet had said he wasn’t considered a likely suitor, though he’d be welcome if he decided to show interest in Lady Victoria, ten years his junior. Only three years separated the two of them, thought Flora. Harriet had warned her to avoid mentioning her age, as some would consider twenty-five to be nearly on the shelf. Lord Robert turned to smile at a young lady with copper-colored hair. He looked delighted with her. Lady Victoria joined them. Flora felt a pang in the region of her heart. With fierce discipline, she dismissed it.
The young female guests were Lady Victoria’s age, her particular friends, Harriet had said. Flora noted that they hadn’t been chosen to make the daughter of the house shine in comparison. Several had to be judged much prettier than Lady Victoria; she must be generous or confident, or perhaps both. Flora banished a sneaking wish that she’d been less magnanimous. All the girls looked so assured and graceful in their pale muslin dresses.
Flora realized that Lord Robert was coming toward her. Her pulse sped up as he stopped by her side.
“I’ve come to beg your pardon,” he said. “I was rude. Please accept my apologies.”
Flora could only nod. He hadn’t spoken to her so curtly even when they’d been mired in one of their running debates last summer. He seemed different in other ways as well. His clothes looked more—she groped for a word—complicated than they had in Russell Square and Oxford. His neckcloth was more intricate, his waistcoat more opulent. More than that, though, he had a larger presence. If she’d thought of it at all she would have predicted that he’d be less impressive surrounded by the cream of the haut ton. Outshone or overshadowed with other noblemen all around him. In fact, it was the opposite. He stood out—polished, assured, every inch a duke’s son. And just, perhaps, the tiniest bit intimidating?
“I was startled to see you,” he went on when she didn’t speak. “Knowing how you hate the fashionable set.”
“Hate is a strong word.”
“We can dispute my word choice, but you cannot deny that you’ve expressed contempt for the ton. Emphatically and often.”
“Contempt is—”
“Another strong word. Indeed.” He smiled at her.
Abruptly, treacherously, Flora was ambushed by a memory. It had been late, at her home in Russell Square. A group of her father’s old friends were making their farewells to her mother. She and Lord Robert had lingered in a dim corner of the drawing room. She couldn’t recall how that had come about, but it was one of the rare moments when they hadn’t been arguing. Indeed, they’d been in charity with one another, for once. And he’d looked down at her with admiration, and tenderness, and longing. She couldn’t mistake it. His gaze had sent shivers through her body. She’d wanted to step into his arms and lose herself in a wild kiss and let passion take them where it would.
Flora blinked and swallowed. She’d shoved that simmering desire away, out of sight, almost out of mind. She’d been so sure that he’d walk out of her life as easily as he’d walked in, that he would make a fool of her. Then, recently, she’d wondered if she was mistaken. Now she faced a new version of this unfathomable man.
Order Jane Ashford’s next book
in The Duke's Sons series
Nothing Like a Duke
On sale May 2017
About the Author
Jane Ashford discovered Georgette Heyer in junior high school and was captivated by the glittering world and witty language of Regency England. That delight was part of what led her to study English literature and travel widely in Britain and Europe. She has written historical and contemporary romances, and her books have been published in Sweden, Italy, England, Denmark, France, Russia, Latvia, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, and Spain, as well as the United States. Jane has been nominated for a Career Achievement Award by RT Book Reviews. Born in Ohio, she is now somewhat nomadic. Find her on the web at www.janeashford.com and on Facebook.
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