Page 34 of The Duke's Rebellious Love
“I feel awkward when all eyes are on me. I have never enjoyed the attention. I am not as amusing as my friend Trawler or brooding like Silverton. There is the expectation I shall know what to say because of who I am. It is rarely the case. If they were to know me better, they would regret the knowledge they had gained. Just as Annabelle did.”
“I do not think that would be true of all young women,” the dowager said, her tone sympathetic. To his surprise, his mother then added, “This can be the last event if you like. Then the three of us can return to the country.”
It would have been preferable, Woolwich longed to say, if they could leave today, but this offer was a compromise, and he nodded gratefully. To return to his country seat, buried deep in the rolling countryside, caught amidst the mists, close enough to the sea to ride out and enjoy the crisp salt air… Beau had mainly resided in the dowager’s house, but this summer, he would be alongside Woolwich. It would be glorious, fun filled, and surely, after a good few months of these child-focused activities, Woolwich would no longer think of Miss Blackman as much as he currently did.
“I look forward to the Hurstbourne Ball, Mother,” he lied.
She made a snorting noise, highly unsuitable for a lady of her station. “What a falsehood. But you can comfort yourself by removing to the gentlemen’s card room as soon as the first dances are done.”
Of that, he had no doubt he would, and if Miss Blackman were to be leading out the first dance, he might well remove himself sooner.
* * *
Despite missingthe lady of the house, the Hurstbourne townhouse had been transformed. Every effort had been made to make the hallways resemble a medieval wonderland. Tapestries had been draped from the walls, there was the sound of flutes being played, and even the servants had been dressed to mimic a character from Chaucer or King Arthur’s Court. From the taper lights, smoke rose, creating a glimmering, mysterious atmosphere, and when Woolwich looked down at the carpets, he saw that rose petals had been scattered beneath the guests’ feet. He recalled one of the earliest conversations he’d shared with Clara—an argument about the merit of the Arthurian Legends. He wondered if that was why this theme had been chosen. His stomach twisted with the realisation that it probably was not, and more likely was the rationale that it was something both Goudge and Clara liked.
Ahead of them, someone gasped and clapped.
When Woolwich glanced at his mother, her curved eyebrows were perfectly raised in mild admiration so as not to show too much enthusiasm. But he caught the speculative half smile that gave her away—she was impressed and surprised despite herself at the fabulous display.
They proceeded down the receiving line until he reached Hurstbourne, who he greeted with more enthusiasm than he normally would have. Clara stood next to Hurstbourne, dressed in a flowing, cream silk gown, her waist encircled in a thick band of green, pearls at her throat and ears. Everything that a demure lady might choose, but Woolwich knew the truth. Beneath the gown, the real warmth and heart of her passionate soul could not be confined to such garb.
Miss Blackman bobbed her greeting to him, her smile warming up considerably when she turned to his mother. His stomach clenched as he stared at her.
“What an unusual theme. But I do quite like the rustic change.”
“You are too good, Your Grace. I can promise you,” Clara continued, “that more traditional music will commence when our guests are gathered.”
It was time to move. Time to take his mother’s arm and take her into the ballroom, but Woolwich desperately wanted to say something else. He hadn’t seen Clara in a week—there was the bland enquiry after her health or that of her sister. No, that was hardly worth the breath it would take to utter it. There was a question on what had happened after he’d left Goudge and her alone. But that would be deemed inappropriate, at least in mixed company—the only solution was to continue the torture and suggest they dance.
“Will you honour me with a waltz and quadrille?”
Clara looked at him blankly for a fraction of a second, and then she gave him a decided smile. “I’m afraid, Your Grace, my dance card is full.” She then tilted her head to the guests just over his left shoulder and called out, “Oh, my dear Mrs. Wright, so good of you to come.”
With that, Woolwich found himself dismissed. He took hold of his mother’s arm and nodded, not hearing any more of her comments about the arrangements or the guests, not even when they entered the grand ballroom and took in the magnificently arranged candles, the hose-clad minstrels and the hanging row after row of flowers. They circled through the mingling guests, nodding and offering out greetings to friends they saw. The words were sluggish in Woolwich’s head, as if the guests, ladies and gentlemen who he knew well, were talking at him from miles away.
“That is the second time you’ve ignored me,” the dowager said, her voice low but clear enough for Woolwich to catch it. “If you’re so ill-disciplined as all that, go find a card room now. I mean to locate Mrs. Blackman and congratulate her.”
“For the birth of the baby?”
“No.” His mother looked annoyed. “For the engagement of Miss Clara Blackman. Surely you must realise that is why we are here.”
Heightened embarrassment coursed through his body. His assumption had been that Miss Blackman would continue in much the same way as she always had, a bookish wallflower. Her blossoming this Season had caused thetonto finally pay her some attention and make more a fool of Woolwich for being too arrogant to see she always deserved it. The acknowledgment did not make him feel any better. Having been deserted by his mother, he cut farther through the gaudily dressed crowd in the hopes of finding a drink. When presented with a goblet of mead, Woolwich dutifully took the beverage, silently wishing for the whole dratted evening to end.
Far away, on the other side of the ballroom, there came the sounds of a horn, and when the noise ceased, Hurstbourne moved up to stand on the podium alongside the musicians. There was a scattered outbreak of applause. Hurstbourne looked to the right and then to the left of him, waiting for silence to speak.
“Thank you. Thank you. It is most kind and gracious of you all.” Hurstbourne’s voice carried as he beamed around at the multitude of people welcomed into his home. “I was most happy to host this little party and to see so many of you in attendance. My dear sister-in-law, Miss Blackman, had most kindly agreed to be my hostess as my dear wife is unable to join us. But you have by now heard the news that this week, we welcome to our family my darling daughter.” There was another round of clapping before Nick continued, “Likewise, this evening, we will be heralding another new member. Allow me to announce an engagement.” Behind Hurstbourne, the musicians started plucking at the bows in an excited way, and Nick gestured towards the bent head of Clara. “I think,” Hurstbourne called out, “I will have the pleasure of beating the press to this engagement between my dear sister-in-law and my honoured guest and future brother-in-law, Mr. Goudge.”
The loudest round of clapping greeted this, and when the earl, Mr. Goudge, and Clara stepped off the podium, a happy spring piece of music began playing. The ballroom immediately shifted to one side or the other, giving space for Mr. Goudge and Clara to walk out into the centre of the room. Unmoving, hands gripped tight on his untouched goblet, Woolwich watched them dance. For a solitary minute, it was just the pair of them, and then more dancers flocked onto the floor.
Soon, it would be over. After all, Woolwich reminded himself that it was already ten o’clock, and after midnight, surely his mother would want escorting home. Of course, she could probably go by herself, but he had offered to be her escort. Hell, he was happy to leave right now. Only his word and the number of guests who surrounded him gave him any pause.
What sort of damned idiot was she? There was any number of criticisms he had levelled at Clara Blackman over the Season, mainly to her face. Some of them had been fair, whilst others had not been. Wedding someone of Goudge’s character smarted of stupidity. Had she been blackmailed into the match? Or had her stated keenness to end her single status been her only motivation? He could not quite believe that of Clara, but still that lingering question remained.
Unbidden, Woolwich found himself approaching the dance floor, his eyes unable to break away from watching the newly engaged couple. All around him was a buzz of happy chatter. His earlier target for seduction—Lady Heatherbroke—was watching the dancing pair with a slight frown on her pretty countenance. When she glanced his way, Woolwich bowed. To his surprise, she murmured something to her two surrounding friends and walked over to him.
“Your Grace,” Lady Heatherbroke said, her heart-shaped face looking further vexed on closer inspection.
“I am surprised not to see you on the dance floor,” Woolwich settled on.
