She inclined her head to him and was rewarded with the beginnings of a smile that changed his countenance; the stark look disappeared in the warmth of his gaze. No longer the proud unapproachable duke, he escorted Persephone to the refreshment table.
“Lemonade?”
She held back the nervous laughter bubbling inside of her. She’d never had such a lofty personage paying attention to her, and Persephone had to confess it went to her head like a glass of hot wine.
“Yes, thank you, Your Grace.”
He poured a cup for her and another for himself.
“You aren’t having champagne?”
“I cannot abide the taste.” His low-pitched voice left her to wonder if it was due to the fact everyone in the room seemed to be attuned to the Duke of Wyndmere and her…the ton’s most recent fodder for gossip…or had he wished to speak on more intimate terms.
Probably the gossip, she thought.
The directness of his gaze unsettled her. Her face felt warm and her heart beat faster.
“Your eyes give away your thoughts, Lady Persephone.”
“How so?”
“At the moment, they seem to convey worry and excitement wrapped up with a tinge of wonder.”
Her sharply indrawn breath was barely audible, but she sensed he’d heard.
“I meant no offense. It’s rather refreshing to behold something other than dissolute boredom in the eyes of one’s companion for the evening.”
Her hands trembled. In danger of spilling her untouched lemonade, she looked about her for a place to set it down.
The duke relieved her of the problem, and the silver cup. “I see an unoccupied table by the French doors. Would you lead the way?”
“Yes, of course, Your Grace.”
He muttered something she could not quite hear and had no intention of asking him to repeat. Her father used to mutter whenever vexed or at cross purposes with someone, usually her or her mother. She sighed and swept the short train of her dress out of the way of a pair of noticeably large feet…just in time. The inebriated lord stumbled and nearly trod on her slippered foot.
Not one to suffer fools, or drunken lords, the duke summoned a footman to assist the wobbly gentleman from their vicinity.
Setting their cups on the table, he helped seat Persephone before asking, “Shall I bring you something to eat?”
She shook her head. “This is fine, thank you, Your Grace.” She couldn’t help but notice the way the duke clenched his jaw. Was he in pain from his injuries still? Heavens, she did not dare ask him.
“Your Grace…” There it was again. A quick sip from her cup and she tried again. “I want to thank you for coming to my aid, Your Grace.” This time, his left eye twitched as he clenched his jaw.
A depth of emotion swelled within her for this proud man. He had accomplished so much in the short time he’d been the sixth duke—if what she’d heard could be believed. Had the fifth duke really been shot leaving his married lover’s bed? She shook her head. None of that was her concern. Not one word would she ever repeat.
Searching for an innocuous topic that would not give offense, she asked, “What did you think of the musical selections this evening?”
His eyes bulged as he fought not to choke on the sip he’d just taken.
Persephone marveled at his control and wonderfully ducal expression as he blotted his lips and set the linen napkin across his lap once more.
“Interesting choice of music and performance.”
She wished she could confide her earlier worry that her ears had begun to bleed from the abuse they’d taken during Lady Larissa’s portion of the musicale. But she knew it might lead the duke to have a disgust of her. Something she did not want to do.
“And you?” he asked. “Did her singing bring tears to your eyes?”
She smiled. “Very nearly, Your Grace.”
“I fear you mistake my meaning, Lady Persephone.”
She tilted her head to one side, studying the vision before her. The duke’s dark hair and patrician features only added to his austere appearance. Clad in the unrelieved black of his evening attire…black frockcoat, waistcoat, and trousers…only his starched cravat and crisp cambric shirt were white. The contrast made the blue of his eyes more brilliant…piercing.
Especially when he was staring at her, as he was doing right now. “Do I?” she asked rather breathlessly.
He lifted his cup once more, sipped, and set it on the table, never once breaking eye contact with her. “Mayhap I am mistaken.”
Unused to being singled out by any one gentleman during an evening’s entertainment, Persephone wished her very good friends, Lady Phyllida and Lady Cressida, were in attendance. At least then she could have escaped prior to the duke waylaying her in the refreshment room.
He smiled, this time more fully—a hint of a dimple had her unabashedly staring at his face.
“Have I a drop of lemonade on my cheek?”
“Er…uh no, Your Grace. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.” She wished he had continued to smile so she could discover if the sixth duke had dimples in both cheeks. That would certainly change his serious ducal countenance to one more approachable, likeable, and dare she say it, handsome.
He frowned at her.
She smiled at him.
“Persephone, there you are,” her mother said from behind her. “Your Grace,” her mother continued, “thank you for escorting my daughter in for refreshment, however, we are due at the Andrews’ ball shortly and must take our leave.”
He stood and bowed over Lady Farnsworth’s hand before answering, “I plan to attend as well. Shall I escort you ladies?”
“Thank you for the generous offer, Your Grace, perhaps another time,” Lady Farnsworth replied. “We shall look forward to seeing you at the ball.”
“Depend upon it,” the duke said before taking his leave, striding from the room.
“You were far too cozy just now, speaking with the duke,” her mother said in a low tone. “We shall have a discussion in the carriage,” her mother warned, “and not a word until then.”
The said their goodbyes to Lord and Lady Darnley, thanking them for the evening’s entertainment and praising their daughters’ performances.
The wait for the carriage was not unexpected. There were quite a few people in attendance at the musicale who were, no doubt, headed to the Andrews’ ball as they were doing.
“I did not see you in the crush afterward,” her mother said, after settling against the leather squabs of their carriage. “I am glad the duke was there as he said he would be.”
“I had not heard him approach,” Persephone said, remembering her surprise. “His arrival seemed timed perfectly. I confess, I was contemplating the merits of proclaiming my innocence to the assemblage regarding the whole Banbury tale which someone obviously concocted to discredit me.”
Her mother stared at her. “I am even more grateful. That would not have been well done of you, Daughter.”
Persephone ignored that last statement and asked, “Who would do that? What would they have to gain?” She could not believe anyone would want to cause her harm with their words when she’d spent the whole of the previous Season in the background.
“There are too many among those in society who have nothing better to do with their time,” her mother said, “and those who seek what they do not have. Those who would not hesitate to cause ill will, if it would lead to their obtaining whatever they sought.”
“Are you saying someone I know not would seek to discredit me because of something I have—which I know not what it might be—in order to obtain it themselves?”
Her mother nodded. “Yes, my dear.”
“Unconscionable,” Persephone cried.
“Agreed.”
“What in the bloody hell do I have that anyone else would want?”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed, and Persephone realized she should have chosen her words more carefully. “Sorry, Mamma.”
“Botheration!”
Her mother frowned but did not remonstrate her daughter from using such language. “You did ask, and I am not finished,” her mother said. “Although you had chosen to outfit yourself in horrid colors, until I took matters into my own hands, the cut and quality of your gowns were of the very best. Madame Beaudoine’s talent with needle and thread combined with her eye for cut and color is beyond a doubt why she is much sought after. Did you know she has preferred customers…and we are at the top of her list?”
Persephone stared for long moments at her mother. “I did not.”
“There are those on the fringes of society who would climb over any individual who would stand in their way.” Her mother paused before adding, “Do you remember what happened to Victoria Lancaster?”
“The name is familiar, but I confess I cannot remember her face.”
With a nod as if that said it all, her mother fell silent.
“Aren’t you going to tell me what happened to her?”
“Her mother was the only daughter of a Cit—in the trade you know—but the mother married well enough, to a baron with excellent family connections. Victoria was the oldest of three daughters, just ten and seven when she made her come out.”
“Ah, yes, very pretty, wasn’t she?” Her mother agreed. Persephone remembered the last bit about Miss Lancaster, saying, “Made a bit of a cake of herself over that dashing rake, Simon Dean.”
Lady Farnsworth frowned. “He made overtures to more than one debutante. Rich as they come, second son of Lord Garfield. Cut quite a dash in his Regimentals. Green girls were ever in his sights.”
“Didn’t she run away with Mr. Dean?”
“Her father caught them before they reached Gretna Green and whisked her off to the country. There was talk of his trebling her dowry. Married her off to Lord Dixon.”
Persephone remembered the rumors circulating at the time. Pointed, descriptive and a bit on the nasty side. “I felt sorry for her, saddled with a lord twenty years her senior.”
“Many young ladies of good family marry gentlemen much older than themselves,” her mother reminded her.
“I never asked what the truth of the matter was,” Persephone confided. “I felt so sorry for her, married to a gouty lord with a bulbous nose.”
“Persephone!” Her mother sounded horrified. “Looks are not the full measure of a person. One should never judge on that element alone.”
“Phyllida said he’d already buried two wives.”
Her mother’s sigh was low and long. “I knew his first wife. We made our debut together.”
“Did he always have such a large nose?”
Her mother made an exasperated sound before answering, “Yes.”
“What happened to the first wife?”
“She died in childbirth.”
They fell silent, each deep in their own thoughts.
“And his second wife?” Persephone wanted to know the whole of the story before they arrived at the Andrews’ ball.
“Married again five years after the death of his first wife. No one understood why he chose a lady rumored to have a sickly constitution. Perhaps she formed a tendre for him. She died of a fever three years after they wed.”
“I don’t recall seeing Lord and Lady Dixon recently.”
“I doubt you will. They are due to welcome their first born.”
“And have you heard if they are happy?”
“I doubt we will hear such unless we call on them ourselves. Those of the ton only feed on the negative. Now then, my dear, we are very nearly there, and I would caution you not to speak about anything of import tonight.”
Persephone agreed. “The weather then? Is that a proper topic for this evening?”
“Try not to stray from it.”
“Yes, Mamma.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Andrews’ ball was a whirl of color, scent, and sound. Persephone and her mother arrived midway through the extravaganza. As was their habit after the first segment of the ball concluded, Lord and Lady Andrews were no longer holding the customary receiving line.
“As I’d hoped,” her mother whispered before removing her wrap and handing it to the footman. “Best not to call too much attention to ourselves until this hideous gossip is put to bed.”
“Then why are we here?” Persephone had been hesitant to go out at all this evening, yet her mother had been determined to do so once the duke offered his aid. Would she end up a social pariah because of the wicked tale some nameless person concocted about her? Good heavens, would she end up married to a gentleman thrice her age with gout or, dare she even think it, a bulbous nose?
“Your father would not have it otherwise. Think of him and put on a brave face. He was, above all things, a man of great integrity and pride.”
Persephone handed her wrap to the footman and followed her mother to the ballroom where they would be announced. “I always admired Father’s integrity, but his pride did give me pause, until he explained it was tied to the family name, title and to us.”
“Lady Farnsworth and her daughter, Lady Persephone.” The low tone of the Andrews’ butler was quite audible above the music and muddle of voices in the crowded ballroom.
For the second time that night, heads turned. Quizzing glasses were raised, and murmurs swept in and around those in attendance.
“Mother, I don’t think…” Persephone’s voice faltered. “Is it too late to change our minds and simply leave?”
“A few dances, a sip of champagne or lemonade and I promise you we shall.”
Relieved, Persephone tried to ignore the rude stares and fluttering fans of the Andrews’ guests while her mother made her way through the room, stopping every now and again to speak with those of her acquaintance.
Although she’d rather be home curled up in her father’s favorite leather chair in his library reading, she dug deep for the courage not to be cowed by her peers. Had her mother not been so well liked among the ton, Persephone would never have agreed to accompany her to the musicale or the ball.
She noticed the Duke of Wyndmere standing in a small group of gentlemen gathered off to the side of the ballroom. He was easy to spot, given his height and propensity for wearing only black.
While she and her mother made the rounds, speaking to a few acquaintances, Persephone wished she could have but a moment alone. She spied the open doors to the terrace and whispered, “Mamma, I feel the need for a breath of air.”
Understanding, her mother patted her daughter’s hand and cautioned, “Do not be long and do not venture off the terrace.”
“Yes, Mamma,” Persephone promised, trying not to rush. The need to escape the ballroom and those of the ton who appeared ready to scorn her for something she simply had not done threatened to overwhelm her completely if did she not reach the safety of the terrace.
She slipped through the doorway and onto the terrace, breathing deeply for the first time since arriving at the ball. The pale silvery beams of moonlight beckoned to her. The soft strains of a waltz beginning to play had her wishing, just once, she was not quite such a bluestocking—a complete antidote. Now she feared she would be shunned although innocent of any wrongdoing.
A slight breeze swept past her. She sighed and looked up at the moon, wishing for once she had been the dutiful daughter her parents had hoped for. Alas, that had not happened before her father had passed. He would have put paid to the vicious gossip surrounding her. She missed him. Missed the times he had danced with her during her previous Seasons.
Closing her eyes, she savored the memory and followed her heart, moving to the music streaming out of the open windows and terrace doors. Her imaginary partner—the perfect one she’d dreamed of for years—a gentleman who would love her despite
her lack of desire to be a puppet wife, dressed in the latest fashions and turned out for all of society to see as a diamond of the first water. Persephone never aspired to be a proper lady…believing that to mean pretending to be a vacuous pampered lady without a thought of her own.
She whirled past the terrace doors and into the strong embrace of a stranger. Her eyes shot open and her breath snagged in her breast. The tall man dressed in black pressed his hand to her waist as he whirled her into his arms and around the terrace.
His brilliant blue eyes and white cravat shone in the moonlight.
“Your Grace?”
“Lady Persephone,” he acknowledged.
“I was…er…you see…I just—”
“Wishing for a proper partner?”
“I thought I was alone,” she confessed. “If I were dancing with an imagined partner, I would never have presumed it be you, or that you would ask me to dance,” she mumbled, stumbling.
“You must look into my eyes,” he instructed, “so the motion of the dance does not make you dizzy.”
She did as he bid. The Duke of Wyndmere whirled her around the moonlit terrace until the music died away.
Taking her hand in his, he bowed over it. “A pleasure, Lady Persephone,” he rasped. “I look forward to waltzing with you again.”
Her hand flew to her throat. “Do you think anyone saw us?” Dread filled her. “Mother will marry me off to one of the men on her list if we are seen.”
His solemn gaze did naught to reassure her. “I doubt we were seen,” he said, “but I shall take a turn about the gardens while you go back through the doors to prevent us from entering the ballroom together.”
She nodded. Before he made it to the first step down, she called out his name. He paused.
“It was a lovely dance,” she whispered. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
He inclined his head and disappeared onto the shadowed path, reappearing a short distance away in the filtered moonlight, and then further on…a tall, dark, unrecognizable figure in the distance.
With a heartfelt sigh for all that could not be, and the current worries she’d caused her mother and herself, Persephone slipped back into the ballroom, seeking out her mother.
Mending the Duke’s Pride Page 11