Page 20 of The Duke Who Loved Me (The Duke's Estates 1)

She surveyed their lively faces. “Young men roam, young ladies stay home.” Though she felt her contribution weak, she received a chorus of approving laughter.

“Or so they would have us believe,” said Charlotte when it died away. “I don’t care much for shrinking myself.”

Neither did she, Cecelia acknowledged. And she was happy to have found friends who felt the same way.

Four

James’s campaign to win a bride was delayed by an invitation to view a race between two of his friends in their new high-perch phaetons. The event ended at a country inn with a good many rounds of rack punch to congratulate the winner and some sore heads the following day. But he took up the issue when he returned to town.

James was quite confident of success. He had, after all, been acquainted with Cecelia for many years. He’d had ample opportunity to observe her, and he felt he must know her better than he realized. It was simply a matter of concentration and exertion. Clearly he outshone the fellows who had previously offered for her—those he knew about at any rate. And, without undue vanity, he couldn’t think of any other gentleman of thehaut tonwho was a better match. Didn’t the hordes of matchmaking mamas show as much?

He’d merely been too hasty. Women liked a bit of wooing. Cecelia was intelligent and impressively competent, but she was still a woman. He’d startled her with a stark question. He was sure she would see the sense of his plan, and fall in with it, once her pride was soothed. For that, he must be seen to have made an effort. He’d learned over the years that there were ways to get around her, if one bothered. And so he set about doing so.

Cecelia’s father seldom went out, even during the height of the season. But he did attend gatherings given by his friend Lady Tate, a widow with literary aspirations, and Cecelia always accompanied him. These evening parties were not particularly fashionable. Indeed, James suspected they were a dead bore, but his appearance at one of them would impress Cecelia. She would see that he was serious. And so he’d gone to some lengths to procure an invitation. It had been more difficult than he’d expected. Lady Tate appeared unmoved by his new title despite her own noble lineage. She’d practically interrogated him about why he wished to come. He’d had to hint at his interest in Cecelia before she begrudgingly allowed that he might attend if he promised to behave himself. Without having any idea what that was supposed to mean, he had vowed to do so. He had rather resented her tone.

On the night, he dressed with care. Having been told that formal evening dress was not required, and suspecting that this was some sort of test, he decided on buff pantaloons and a long-tailed coat of dark blue crafted for him by Weston. Standing before a long mirror, he arranged his neckcloth in austere folds and added a single sapphire pin. Hobbs had achieved his customary shine on his boots, and altogether James looked what he was, a Corinthian complete to a shade. James had been told often enough that he was handsome. He didn’t set a great deal of store by it, but women did. Cecelia would notice that he’d taken pains.

He found Lady Tate greeting her guests in the doorway of her large, comfortable drawing room. The widow of an earl, she had pale eyes, nearer gray than blue, and what appeared to be a permanently satirical expression. Her white hair was piled up on her head under an elaborate cap, and her purple gown was richly simple. Now about sixty, she’d been left well provided for at her husband’s death and had famously stated that she intended to do as she pleased now that the “nonsense” of marriage and procreation was finished.

“Tereford,” she said when James made his bow. “You did come. Not your sort of party, I would have thought. We discuss ideas, you know.”

Did she suggest that he had no ideas? It certainly seemed so. “Most interesting ones, I’m sure,” he replied.

“Are you?”

What was he to say to this? “So I have heard.”

“Indeed? Well, your request for an invitation made me curious, and I always indulge my curiosity. Once.”

Apparently she indulged in rudeness as well. James imagined that she thought of it as plain speaking. Such people usually did. He was saved from replying by the arrival of another guest, a bearded man in a turban who was clearly a friend of the hostess.

James moved forward into the room and joined a small but varied crowd. There were a number of dark-skinned individuals and several with Asian features. People’s dress showed no concession to current fashions and yet was opulent and colorful. One woman had on the flowing wrapped dress of India. The turbaned man who had entered after him wore a brocaded tunic of cerulean blue over narrow trousers. An aged gentleman seated by the fireplace sported the powdered wig and skirted coat of a previous generation; jewels winked in the lace at his throat. Altogether an interesting grouping.

James was accustomed to encountering acquaintances at an evening party, if not good friends. But here he saw none other than Cecelia’s father, gesturing emphatically in a far corner. In fact, he had never seen Vainsmede so animated. For a moment he feared that Cecelia had chosen not to come tonight, and his effort was wasted. Then he saw her, talking with a group of four young ladies who didn’t seem to fit with this older crowd. They stood like a cluster of commonplace flowers in a bed of exotics.

He made sure that Cecelia saw him. Her look of surprise was gratifying. James gave her a nod and smile, but he didn’t approach her at once. He intended to be more subtle than that. Instead, he went to speak to her father. As he crossed the room, he noticed the fellow Henry Deeping had introduced in another conversational group. The name came back to him—Stephan Kandler. No sign of Henry, however.

Nigel Vainsmede started when James joined his group. He did not smile. Over the whole course of their association James couldn’t recall a single instance when Vainsmede had been glad to see him. At fifteen, this had bewildered and wounded him. It no longer did.

They were about the same height, but Vainsmede was a soft man, not fat but well padded by indulgence, which had also blurred his features. His hair was more golden than his daughter’s and his blue eyes less acute. Or perhaps they only seemed that way because he habitually evaded James’s gaze. “I wouldn’t have expected to see you here, Tereford,” he said.

“Broadening my experience,” James replied.

“Really?” Vainsmede actually looked interested.

A part of James wanted to say, “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.” Just to see the older man squashed. But that wouldn’t suit his purposes, so he simply nodded.

Vainsmede glanced at his companions. “Tereford, you know.”

The two men clearly didn’t know. They looked at each other, at James, and then at each other again.

Vainsmede murmured their names, but the sound was lost as Lady Tate called for everyone’s attention and began to urge them to chairs and sofas. Only then did James discover that the evening’s entertainment was a reading from a new work on philosophy, followed by a discussion of the ideas presented. He strove to keep the chagrin from his expression as Lady Tate herded him to a seat.

James found he had made a tactical error. He was being placed far from Cecelia. He tried a lunge toward her, but he was trapped by the hostess before he took three steps and plumped down between two strangers—the man in the turban and one of Vainsmede’s group. He might have rebelled and shifted his position, but Cecelia was settled among her bevy of young ladies by then, with no space nearby.

He fumed through the introduction of the writer and Lady Tate’s retreat. The author—stocky, pale, and earnest—stared out at his audience. James resigned himself to a stretch of boredom.

The man began. “My topic tonight is Kant’s statement: ‘A categorical imperative would be one which represented an action as objectively necessary in itself, without reference to any other purpose.’” He looked down at a sheaf of pages in his hand and started to read.

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