Read When a Duke Says I Do Online
Authors: Jane Goodger
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical
When a Duke Says I Do (11 page)
Aunt Diane snapped it closed, but smiled. She was a handsome woman, and Elsie thought she was prettier now than when she was a younger woman. She’d always been thin, which did no service at all to her sharp features, but the recent few pounds she’d added softened her face, making her actually pretty when she smiled.
“You are looking lovely this evening,” Elsie said, eying her aunt critically. She had no idea how old Aunt Diane was, knowing only that she was her father’s younger sister. Elsie realized that even though she’d assumed the older woman was near her father’s age of forty-six years, she had very few lines upon her face and her figure was quite girlish. Her dark blond hair held hardly a gray strand.
“Thank you. I’ve decided to put myself back on the marriage mart,” her aunt said dryly.
“I know you are jesting, Aunt, but you are prettier now than ever.” Her aunt actually blushed, then began to fan her face again.
“Nonsense. I don’t even know what I am in line for. I think I shall find some other old spinsters and discuss how ill-mannered today’s youth are.”
Elsie made a face at her aunt and was about to retort when she realized she was next to receive her dance card. It was a pretty thing, clearly expensive, with thickly embossed paper and silver embellished corners. “Lovely,” Elsie said, thinking instead how much nicer were these dance cards than the simple ones she had ordered for her birthday party.
In the ballroom, the orchestra was tuning up and people were beginning to mill about awaiting the Grand March, which started so many of these events. Elsie spied Lord Hathwaite among a group of other young men, looking far livelier than she’d ever seen him before. Goodness, he even let out a laugh and slapped a chum’s back. It was then she realized the stifling affect His Grace had on his son.
Alexander stood on the lawn, hidden in the shadows, where he had a perfect vantage of the ballroom and Desmarais. There had been more than one occasion when he’d needed to help the man from a social event before he made a complete ass of himself. He now recognized the signs, the flamboyant gestures, the way he played with his thin mustache in a clumsy way, how he walked. Perhaps few people recognized that he was heavily in his cups on those occasions, but Alexander knew the man had a great capacity for fooling people even when he was nearly falling over drunk.
This was, he realized, one of the more elegant balls he’d witnessed. This was the cream of society, the lords and ladies who were the toast of London, the powerful, the wealthy, and he wondered, fleetingly, if his father was amongst those in attendance.
One of the drivers spied him beneath the tree, and to Alexander’s annoyance, made straight for him. He stiffened and tried to stem the sharp pang of anxiety at the man’s approach, with minimal success. The driver, wearing bright blue livery, pulled out a small, tarnished case, holding it out to him. “Smoke?”
“Thank you,” he said, taking a thin cheroot. He examined it, noting its high quality, and bent while the man lit it for him then lit his own. He took a few experimental puffs, then smiled. “Nice.”
“Lord Hansard’s right generous with his smokes,” he said with his broad Yorkshire accent. “Got these left over from Christmas.”
The man looked him over, noting his obvious lack of uniform, as well as the fine cut of his clothes. “Yer not a guest,” he said, but with enough question Alexander could tell he was not completely certain.
“No. I’m with Monsieur Desmarais, the muralist. I am his assistant,” he said, wishing the man would go away. “Thank you for the smoke. Good evening.”
“Good evenin’ ta you, as well,” the man said, sounding slightly put off that his overtures of friendship were met so coldly.
Alexander didn’t relax until the man had disappeared toward the stables, where the other footmen and drivers were no doubt gambling and sneaking drinks from well-hidden flasks. Part of Alexander longed to be the sort of man who could walk up to a stranger and offer him a smoke. He could hear the men’s laughter, their obvious camaraderie, but felt nothing but intense unease at the thought of joining them.
Disgusted with himself, he took a long draw of the cheroot, exhaling angrily. He felt like such a coward, like that trembling little boy who couldn’t speak to strangers or even his own father. It didn’t matter how many times he swore he would change, would be better, would be normal, he simply could not. It was times like this when he realized how ridiculous and pathetic it was to even dream about having someone like Elsie to love. He could never give her what she wanted, could never be the normal man she needed. He prayed to God to give him the sense to walk away from her, before the pain he felt in his heart completely destroyed him. Already, he was consumed by her, by the thought of kissing her, touching her, listening to her talk. In his weaker moments, he let himself dream they were together, alone in a cozy little thatched-roof cottage surrounded by roses, just the two of them, living a comfortable life as man and wife. It was such a simple dream, filled not with riches, but with laughter and music and his Elsie. And perhaps children, with reddish-gold hair and a scattering of freckles.
Alexander swallowed and threw the cheroot down, crushing it beneath his heel. He had better things to do than pine for a woman he could never have and dream impossible dreams.
The Browning ballroom was on the first floor, with guests spilling out onto a large terrace that had an impressive fountain featuring a pod of playful dolphins spewing water from their mouths. A faster crowd would have no doubt made use of that fountain before the evening was done, but it was quite obvious that the people in attendance at this ball wouldn’t even consider such vulgar behavior. Staying to the shadows, Alexander looked for Desmarais, knowing that it was more likely his mentor was playing cards in some other room that was not visible from his vantage point.
He searched the room, trying to avoid resting his eyes on any woman wearing green, but found himself arrested by the sight of Elsie standing with her back to him beside an elegantly and expensively-dressed young man. He could see her profile, and watched almost unwillingly, as she talked with him, laughed, even touched his sleeve with her gloved hand. That simple, innocent touch, caused a rush of red-hot jealousy that he didn’t even try to suppress. The man was blond and they made a lovely pair, a pair he wanted to drive apart with a fist to the man’s face. Alexander realized he was clenching his fists so hard his arms were shaking and he forced himself to relax. He wanted to barge into that ballroom, to crash through the mullioned windows, and tear her away from him, from any man, he realized.
“Ah, hell,” he whispered, when his gut clenched painfully at the site of her laughing, her face tilted charmingly up to the man. The music changed, and the man bowed in front of her, holding out his hand for her to take, then sweeping her off into a waltz. The man was touching her, his hand about her small waist, and he leaned forward to whisper something in her ear, something that made her eyes sparkle. Alexander’s mind screamed for him to turn away, to stop the torture, but another part of him forced himself to watch, to recognize fully the futility of his love.
Monsieur Desmarais was all but forgotten as he watched the couple dance around the room. To anyone else, they were merely one of a dozen couples dancing. But to Alexander, they were the only couple on the dance floor. Every smile they gave one another, every touch, every step they took in unison, tore at him. Finally, mercifully, the dance ended, but instead of bowing to her and leading her to the side, her partner brought her to the terrace and down the steps. Alexander withdrew deeper into the shadows, his heart pounding, as the cad pulled her, quite willingly it appeared, down a garden path well lit by Japanese lanterns of all shapes and colors.
What a pretty picture they made, he thought, a tight, sickening feeling making his stomach actually hurt and he wondered if he were about to cast up his accounts. He watched with mute horror, as they stopped, as she looked up at her escort, as he bent his head down, as their lips touched. Alexander’s entire body was shaking now, as he watched Elsie,
his
Elsie smile up into another’s face. The young man looked ridiculously pleased with her rather tepid kiss. Then he kissed her again, this time longer. With a small impotent growl, Alexander took a step toward them, breaking a small twig beneath his boot, and the couple sprang apart guiltily. Alexander quickly stepped back behind the tree, his entire body hot and stiff with rage as his greatest fear was realized. He was simply a diversion, a pathetic nobody who stupidly fell in love with a girl who clearly did not love him.
his
Elsie smile up into another’s face. The young man looked ridiculously pleased with her rather tepid kiss. Then he kissed her again, this time longer. With a small impotent growl, Alexander took a step toward them, breaking a small twig beneath his boot, and the couple sprang apart guiltily. Alexander quickly stepped back behind the tree, his entire body hot and stiff with rage as his greatest fear was realized. He was simply a diversion, a pathetic nobody who stupidly fell in love with a girl who clearly did not love him.
He stood, his back pressed against the tree, grinding his head painfully into the rough bark, as if he could stop his heart from hurting by doing so. As if he could stop it from breaking.
Diane Stanhope was not a woman given to fanciful thoughts. She prided herself on her ability to be analytical, even with herself. It was a trait that had developed over the years of hope and disappointment. In her twenties, rail thin and with such pointed features young children called her a witch, she had still hoped for a husband and children. She attended balls and soirees and the opera when she was in Town. She paid attention to the latest fashions, practiced conversation, and cultivated friendships that would benefit her.
And then she hit thirty and the realization came that she was and always would be one of those unfortunate women that other women pitied and men ignored. She was a spinster, and suddenly it seemed ridiculous to attend balls wearing the finest fashions, to stand in line for dance cards that would never be filled.
Diane tried not to become bitter, that awful cliché of the unhappy spinster. She developed interests outside the ton, and, in her own circles, she was known as one of the leading experts on England’s flora and fauna. If she could not be married, then she would be a bluestocking, which made her unmarried state more understandable for those who bothered to think of her at all.
She had, over the years, become quite invisible. And yet, this evening, as she’d stood in line for her dance card, she’d been unaccountably pleased when her niece had complimented her.
Diane Stanhope was thirty-two years old and realized, much to her growing horror, that all those hopes she’d had in her twenties of hearth and home and children, had not simply disappeared, they’d only been suppressed by her dogged determination and insistence that she had accepted her fate.
How she hated the feeling that came over her at the oddest times, the feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, there was some nice widower out there who would take one look at her and fall to his knees in romantic rapture. No matter how she tried to fight it, it was still there, like an insidious mold that cannot be completely removed no matter how hard you scrub.
Which was why, when the Earl of Braddock approached her, smiling and looking so completely dashing, her heart fluttered like a young girl’s, allowing that ridiculous hope to flare once again.
“Miss Stanhope, I wonder if I might have a word with you,” Braddock said, giving her that half smile she’d seen him give so many, many women. But he’d never given it to her, so it was quite a novelty.
Unconsciously, she fiddled with her dance card, and Braddock’s eyes flickered down. “Would you do me the honor of the next available dance?” he asked.
Diane opened her dance card, knowing that but for her brother, it was completely empty. “It just so happens, my lord, that I have this dance open.” She smiled at him and he looked momentarily startled, to the point that Diane wondered if she had something stuck to her teeth.
He led her to the middle of the ballroom and pulled her gracefully into a waltz. No matter how Diane screamed at herself to stop her ridiculous heart from beating madly in her chest, it wouldn’t stop. She’d danced with hundreds of men, but never had she felt so foolish as she did at the moment. She could feel her face grow hot beneath his gaze as she stared with great intensity at his neckcloth. For years she had watched Braddock dance with women, listened to gossip about whom he would marry, about who was his mistress. He was, and had been for years, the focus of many marriage-minded mamas. And now, he had asked her to dance. Perhaps Elsie had been right, perhaps she did look lovely that evening.
“I don’t know if you are aware, but I have become the ward of a young girl who requires a London Season,” Braddock said.
“I was not aware, my lord,” Diane said, finally finding the courage to look up. It seemed each time she did, Braddock was taken aback, and Diane, with a deep flash of insecurity, wondered if she were even uglier than she’d realized. With a courage she did not feel, she smiled at him, even as her throat began to ache.
“I am looking for a suitable chaperone for my niece and it is my understanding that your duties as chaperone to your own niece will be ending about the same time the Season begins.”
Oh, of course. He wants the safe old spinster to chaperone his ward. Of course.
“We’ve made no formal announcement as yet, but that is my understanding as well,” she said, feeling foolish and stupid.
“I know it would not be entirely proper, as I am unmarried,” Braddock said unnecessarily. No one in their right mind would even bother to raise an eyebrow if she chaperoned his ward.
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