Page 31 of The Love Potion
She pursed her lips and nodded. “Leave after the supper buffet. I’ll send her to you during the last orchestra set. If anyone asks, she’s on an errand for me. Which she will be.”
He grinned. “Where?”
“There’s an oak tree—”
“I know it.”
The girl shook her head. “Walk down a block from there, near the alley. There’s a hidden corner where the servants make babies.”
He nearly stumbled at her words. Surely she hadn’t just said that. But apparently she had because the girl shrugged.
“That’s what I’m told, at least.”
This was getting ridiculous. Fortunately, the dance was ending. “Lady Zoe,” he said as he bowed over her hand. “May I invite you and your lovely companion to ride with me the day after tomorrow? We’ll go to my estate just outside London. You can have your pick of my horses there and we can share a lovely supper before returning home in time for the evening’s entertainments. There would be still time for you to indulge in any number of amusements, if you wish.”
“What a capital idea,” she returned loudly. “I should love that above all things.”
He thought the situation handled then, but she still managed to whisper into his ear. “Wait in your carriage after the supper buffet. I’ll send Kynthea to you with the recipe.” And when he drew back to frown at her, she cast him a furious look. “Whirl’s health is important!”
There was no chance to object, and indeed, he could see from the girl’s fierce expression that she would insist. So he held his tongue and went in search of his next partner. And so went the evening until the first waltz.
He had remained scrupulously correct in his behavior all evening. But even as he bowed and pranced with each new partner, he had been excruciatingly aware of Miss Petrelli. He kept silent track of her partners, who were all younger sons or rakes. He saw when she directed the servants on the countess’s behalf. He noticed, too, when she brought wraps for thedowagers or intervened on a shy wallflower’s behalf. There was a great deal of silent direction that a hostess must manage during an event such as this. A man of his status was usually ignorant of these things, but he had been around when his mother began teaching Sara the task. So he was aware of the value Miss Petrelli brought to this household, and again, he was impressed.
Which is why he had bribed his friend Milo to write Ras’ name down for the first waltz with Miss Petrelli. The cost had been an ugly rock that he’d picked up during his grand tour, but Milo had a fondness for geology and had long coveted the thing.
So it was that Ras presented himself to the lady in question two minutes before the first waltz began. She was speaking quietly to a dowager seated among the chaperones and was understandably startled when he presented himself.
“I believe this is my dance, Miss Petrelli,” he said.
She looked up at him, her expression clouded. “I don’t believe so, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps you should check your dance card.”
She frowned as she looked at the card upon her wrist. It was moderately filled with names. Enough to hide his own one scrawled upon the current dance line.
“Why would you do that?” she asked.
He dropped down to one knee before her. She was seated, so this brought him eye level with her. But it was also an extraordinary posture for a duke to take. He watched her gaze widen. Even more, he heard the collective gasp of all the matronly chaperones watching with unabashed curiosity.
When he spoke, he was cognizant that his every word would be dissected and relayed over and over. “You have been treated badly lately, Miss Petrelli. Pray let me restore your reputation to the best of my ability. Let me have this dance. Everyone here will bear witness that you attempted to turn me down.”
He caught the eye of several of the women there. One by one, they nodded their agreement, including the most vicious gossipmonger among the chaperones. If he could prevent them from casting aspersions on Miss Petrelli, then the battle was half won.
“Your Grace—” she began, still intending to defer.
“I insist,” he said as he caught her hand.
The dowager seated next to Miss Petrelli poked her in the ribs. “Oh, go on. You’re too young and pretty to turn down a dance, no matter what anyone says about it.”
“Well said,” he agreed. Then he rose up, drawing Miss Petrelli’s arm up with him. She came to her feet gracefully. He was coming to realize that her body movements were generally smooth, and he wondered if her grace was natural or learned. “Were you given comportment lessons as a child?” he asked as he led her to the dance floor.
“What?”
“My sister Sara had them. She hated them, and yet somehow recently learned to walk as you do. I wondered if that was the reason.”
“Book on her head, shoulders back, mincing steps? That sort of thing?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
