Page 63 of Duke of Wickedness
“Do you like it?” Ariadne asked, spreading her skirts a little to give her sister a good look. “I know it’s a little more…risqué than my normal look, but I thought the color might suit me.”
It wasn’t aterriblysuggestive gown, not when Ariadne compared it to the silvery gown from David’s party, but it was a bit bolder than what unmarried young misses were encouraged to wear. The blue was rather bright, and the cut of the gown was simple in a way that made the shimmering weave of the fabric stand for itself, rather than relying on the usual baubles and embellishments to stand out.
She knew she looked good, but it also defied most of the usual rules she followed, the ones that did everything Society recommended—nothing more, nothing less.
“You look marvelous,” Catherine said, appraising Ariadne. “But it’s not just the gown. It’s you. You seem so very confident.”
It was clearly intended as praise, and Ariadne took it as such. There had been a time when each of these Society events made her practically dizzy with nerves. She’d even tossed up her accounts a time or two before she had embraced that an exacting adherence to the rules could provide a sense of security when facing the terrifying vultures that made up most of theton.
But following those rules had come with its own cost. It had beenhard, seeking to perform all the time. And yes, she would still have to play the part to a certain degree—nobody could ever be truly themselves in such a large group, particularly not when reputation was the preferred currency of that group—but this dress?
She’d chosen this dress for herself. She liked it. She liked how it made her feel.
Rules be damned.
That said, she didnotwant Catherine asking any questions about this supposed newfound confidence.
“Oh, a new dress will do that, I suppose,” she said dismissively. “It always feels good, looking one’s best, doesn’t it? Anyway,” she went on before Catherine could say more, “where has Percy gotten to? I cannot imagine that he let you attend this event without an escort.”
People in love were so easy to distract, Ariadne thought with gratitude. It really did make lying ever so much easier.
“Oh, he’s around here somewhere,” Catherine said absently. “He and David are off doing whatever it is they do.”
And, just like that, Ariadne enjoyed swift retribution for her falsehoods. She struggled against the urge to react, and instead gazed absently into the crowd as though disinterested.
“Hm,” she said. “Men.”
Apparently, her airy dismissiveness didn’t hit quite the right note, as Catherine laughed as though Ariadne had told a particularly hilarious joke.
“Just so,” she agreed.
Ariadne didn’t trust her cheeks not to flame and give her away if she looked at her sister, so she treated the ball as though it were terribly fascinating. Catherine drifted away in the direction of her husband, but Ariadne stayed where she was, craving a moment to just be.
It took her mere seconds to meet David’s eyes, as though they’d been drawn together by an invisible string.
There was a crowd between them, dozens of dancers who flitted in and out of their line of sight, flashing color and swirling skirts.
None of it felt as easy to see as David’s hazel eyes, piercing her even from across the room.
She needed to stop looking at him. She was in the middle of a Society ballroom; if she kept this up, someone would notice, and then there would be talk. It wouldn’t be flattering, either—not only would it be scandalous, but everyone would consider her to be completely pathetic. She’d be cast as a tragic former wallflower, not even popular enough to get a proposal from a regular man—since nobody knew about the terrible attempt at aproposal that had come from Lord Hershire, thank goodness—let alone from the famously elusive Duke of Wilds.
And that was the best-case scenario. More likely, they’d assume that she’d succumbed to his charms.
Worse, they’d be correct.
“Oh, Ariadne, hello!”
Ariadne turned to see Phoebe Turner smiling at her, a knowing but still entirely friendly look on her face.
“Good evening, Phoebe,” Ariadne replied, feeling her own smile bloom. It was easy to like Miss Turner. Something about those hopelessly round cheeks and the impish air tempted one into confession.
“Iloveyour frock,” Phoebe said, reaching out to touch the vibrant silk with a faintly covetous finger. This would have seemed rude from someone else, brazen even. But from Phoebe, it just seemed cheerful. The kind of thing a close friend would do.
“I was feeling bold,” Ariadne confessed. “You should have seen the look on my modiste’s face when I chose this color.”
Phoebe laughed, big and bold, without any effort to stifle the sound.
“Did she look impressed at your good taste? Because if not, she should reconsider. You ought to be bold more often. You look marvelous.”
