Page 22 of A Murder in Mayfair
And then, almost as if it sought her out, my gaze found Lady Rosalynd. She was calmly observing the festivities with a detached air while standing near a marble pillar. Her gown, a soft dove-gray silk, was unadorned except for tiny seed pearls at the neckline, elegant but understated. She was not the sort to clamor for attention. Well, except when her ire was raised. She got it nonetheless. Both her beauty and bright copper hair couldn’t be missed. As usual, some of her curls had escaped the—no doubt—painstakingly sculptured arrangement. Much like the lady herself, they would not be tamed.
With the gentlemen I sought nowhere in sight, and my patience already frayed by the endless clamor of small talk, I found myself strolling across the floor toward her. It was unlike me, but something in her repose, so out of step with the frantic gaiety around us, drew me on.
When I reached her side, she offered a slight curtsy, just on the side of proper etiquette. Probably in case someone was watching. And somebody always was.
“Good evening, Lady Rosalynd,” I said, keeping my tone cordial. “I trust you’re enjoying your cousin’s ball?”
Her lips curved, though not in a smile of delight. More like a private amusement. “I find it as diverting as any crowded, noisy event might be, Your Grace.”
I inclined my head in acknowledgment. “High praise indeed.”
She said nothing, only looked over the dancers, as if trying to recall why people chose to whirl about to violin music.
“I trust you did not attend such an event unchaperoned.”
A small smile acknowledged our conversation of two days ago. “No, Your Grace, my grandmother is here, along with my sister. She’s making her debut this season.”
“Yes, I remember.” We’d both been invited to Christmas festivities at Needham Manor in Yorkshire. But when a priceless necklace had been stolen, an investigation into its disappearance had taken up most of our time. I wondered what she would say if I asked her to dance. She’d once refused the same offer.
I offered my hand. “I believe the set is just beginning. Will you do me the honor?”
Her eyes narrowed. Exactly as I expected, she replied, “I would rather not, Your Grace.”
My hand remained extended. “Alas, if you do not, you risk insulting your own cousin. It is her ball, after all. Think of the talk if you refuse the Duke of Steele so publicly.” The last time we’d met, our public disagreement had caused a stir. I doubted she wished to do so again.
Her gaze flicked from my hand to the crowd around us. Clearly, others were watching. Backing away now would not prove to her advantage, or her cousin’s. Finally, her delicate, gloved fingers touched mine.
“Very well,” she said, voice cold as a winter morning. “One dance, Your Grace. Let’s make it count.”
We moved onto the floor and took our places among the other couples. The music began—some old-fashioned dance, the steps of which had been drilled into me from my youth. Polite, controlled, we moved in graceful motion. From a distance, we must have appeared the very picture of harmony. Up close, our words were anything but.
“I wonder,” she began softly when we came together, her voice low enough that no one else could overhear, “if you derivepleasure from cornering ladies into compliance. Is that the secret to your famed political success, Your Grace?”
I nearly missed a step. That amused me, I could not lie. “No,” I returned, keeping my tone mild. “I find it much easier to maneuver gentlemen in the House of Lords than to force an unwilling lady to dance.”
“How fortunate that I am here to pose a challenge then,” she said dryly. “And what is it you hope to gain by this dance?”
I tilted my head. “I hoped for three minutes of civilized conversation. One can grow weary of endless chatter on fashion and scandal. I thought you might offer something more substantial.”
“Is that supposed to flatter me, Your Grace? You drag me onto the ballroom floor to avoid boredom?”
“Perhaps,” I said, feeling a strange thrill at sparring with her. Most women would have simpered or at least pretended that faint praise was welcome. Not her. She parried and countered like a skilled duelist. “Maybe I sought your company because I find you intriguing.”
Her elegant brow arched, more than likely with disbelief. “Let us say I remain unconvinced.”
Once more, the swirl of dancers drew us apart, spinning her into a different pairing. I caught sight of her through the shifting crowd—her gaze distant, her posture stiff—and when the music guided us back into each other’s arms, I immediately sensed a change. The brittle sharpness in her eyes had softened, and something—regret, perhaps—shadowed her fine features.
She lifted her chin slightly, and I could almost feel the tension vibrating within her. “I apologize, Your Grace,” she said, her voice quiet yet laden with sincerity.
My brow creased. Only moments before, she’d met every word of mine with resistance, each phrase with an unsheathededge of steel. “For what reason?” I asked, confused by this sudden reversal.
“I was rude,” she replied, refusing to meet my gaze. “Argumentative, while you’ve done nothing but show politeness. I was taking out my frustrations on you.”
Her confession pricked at something inside me, stirring a curious sympathy. We moved through the next steps, skirts swishing and slippered feet gliding over polished floors. “Does something weigh on you?” I asked, as questions tugged at my mind.
A flicker of distress passed over her face. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice low. “My cousin’s husband, Lord Walsh, has not shown his face at his own ball. Julia is utterly mortified. This was to be their grand evening, and he leaves her to greet a sea of guests alone.”
The tension mounted between us as her words pressed on the very air we breathed. “Perhaps he is merely delayed,” I offered, trying to reassure her, though I found it difficult to believe a gentleman would be so careless.
