Page 7 of The Duke of her Dreams

“Your Grace, you have just described my daughter. Mildred possesses all the qualities you mentioned,” Lady Surrey claimed, and her face turned a little pink like the corset was taking the breath from her.

Theodore sighed and ran his fingers through his wild brown hair. He was trapped with the mamas and his grandmother who wanted nothing but to match him with their daughters. The woman in the peach dress whispered something to the Dowager Duchess that made her laugh.

“I am sorry, Viscountess, but I am sure that the Duke’s tastes do not involve Evangeline. The corset does not even fit anymore,” the Duchess returned in a sweet but menacing voice then she signaled the footman in white clothes by the filigreed candelabras. “Get Mildred Surrey here immediately. The Duke does not like waiting.”

Theodore was examining the light mud on his shoes when the heavy scent of rosemary and musk assailed his nostrils. It was an especially bad combination, one that made his stomach hurt.

“Your Graces, Lady Carstairs, Lady Montgomery, Countess Allington,” a lady wearing the noxious perfume greeted almost everyone in the room.

The Duchess’ gentle tap of the cane on his thigh jarred him to reality. Theodore was busy thinking about all the things he would make right when he arrived back at the Estate. Livestock would be the main source of income — the implementation of a new rotation, allowing the ground to become fertile again before planting season.

“Your Grace,” Lady Surrey said, already on her feet and holding her daughter’s hand. “This is Mildred, the most eligible lady in all of London.”

The Dowager scoffed. “We both know that is not true, Rebecca. Mildred is certainly a fine choice for the Duke, but not the diamond of the first water for this Season. That honor goes to Westminster’s chit. The little blonde one.”

Mildred was fanning her face lightly with a mother-of-pearl fan, staring at Theodore. Her face was flushed, and the perfume was so bad that he was losing the ability to think. All he wanted now was to get some air in the gardens. Maybe run around a little to blow off some steam.

She curtseyed, further revealing the swell of her breasts even though the neckline was low enough for him to catch a glimpse of her corset. Her dark eyes stared at him with an infatuation he knew so well — one that every lady threw his way whenever he came down to London at his grandmother’s behest.

“Your Grace,” Mildred whispered softly, meeting his eyes from the shadow of her fan.

Theodore groaned, unable to mask his frustrations anymore. It was all his fault for not seeing the lies in his grandmother’s words.

“Ask her for a dance, Theodore. Her dance card is almost completely filled up,” the Dowager ordered, straightening her resplendent gown of purple silk.

“Is not that a sight for my sore eyes?” he replied acerbically, pouring his frustration into his words.

The Duchess tapped him again with her cane. “The night is almost over, Your Grace. Just one waltz perhaps. You never know what might happen.”

“Love is in the air,” the woman in the coruscating peach dress said. It was more like a jealous snicker that lacked any form of coherency.

When he did not get up, the Duchess tapped him again, and this time, a little pain jolted him awake. The scent of Mildred’s perfume was still pushing him under, and he looked around to find Perceval, but his steward had already left him alone.

His frustration turned into resignation, but he nudged his grandmother for a word. “We will have a talk when the night is over — about the false urgency and the debutantes you want to set me up with.”

“Get back to the fete. Maybe then, we will have a discussion about not telling the vulgar mamas in London of your whereabouts.”

Theodore’s face was corrugated with rage now. “Very kind of you, Your Grace.”

“Words I do not hear often enough from you. Now, have fun at the ball while you leave the married and widowed women to our shenanigans and vile indulgences.”

He grabbed the glass of champagne and downed it in one massive gulp. Theodore was not normally one to take alcohol because the encumbrances back at the estate needed him to be sober, but now, he wanted to float away in drunkenness and hope Mildred and her noxious perfume would just leave him alone.

Taking her extended gloved hand and placing a small kiss upon it, he looked at her flushed face. “May I have this dance?”

“Yes, I would love to,” Mildred agreed in an unpleasantly high voice and locked his arm in hers.

When they were very well away from the den, as the Duchess called it, Theodore dashed down the staircase, leaving Mildred at the very top. People stared at him on the way out, but none of that mattered. He was not some naive child that his grandmother could set up with just anyone. And he could not stand Mildred’s perfume any longer.

“That is most cruel!” he heard Mildred say, but he was well on his way to the gardens.

ChapterFour

Helen’s powder blue gown was the cynosure of all eyes at the ball. She could feel the eyes of every bachelor on the tight-fitting combination of silk, satin, cotton, and muslin. Her dance card was filled up already with names of bachelors that she knew were going to visit her house the following morning.

But she did not find any that caught her fancy. All the bachelors of the Season were well-mannered men, not even having the faintest hint of rakishness that Helen was desperately searching for. Even Lord Carstairs who Sonya said was a rake was the perfect gentleman.

“Ugh!” she groaned quietly in anguish, feeling her patience winding up already.

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