Page 54 of A Deal with the Duke of Ice

“Welcome,” Mrs. Brummell said, smiling and curtseying. “Lord Benedict, we are surprised to find the delightful Miss Wyre not travelling with you. Thomas and I were entirely smitten with her at the Viscountess March’s ball. She is a delight.”

Benedict bowed. “I must agree. She has travelled here with a friend today. Miss Atwood, I believe. Have you seen her?”

“She is here, but I could not say where. Good luck, Lord Benedict.”

That was a hint to move along – the Brummells had other guests to greet.

The Dowager mumbled something about needing to meet someone and melted into the crowd. That left Benedict to wander alone. Even his few extra inches of height couldn’t do much to help him spot Rosaline.

The Brummell events, as they were called, were much sought after. Most hosts sent out more invitations than they intended to be accepted, and after the first round of refusals would begin to plan for a much more manageable number of guests. There were so many balls and parties in London that one simply couldn’t attend them all.

This way, everyone who “ought” to be invited would receive an invitation, congratulate themselves on being invited, then make their apologies and excuses.

Not so for the Brummell events. Nobody would refuse a Brummell event, not without averygood reason, such as a death in the family, or influenza. As a result, the halls and entertaining rooms in the spacious Brummell townhouse was entirely full. There was no getting to the refreshment tables, and Benedict had no idea how they planned to clear space in the ballroom for the dancing later.

There probably were seats in the rooms, but he couldn’t see them. Moving from room to room was almost impossible, and still the guests kept arriving.

Benedict craned his neck, irritation surging as he failed to spot Rosaline.

He had been wrong to leave her in Hyde Park. Benedict didn’t recall much of his mad dash home, only that the thunder seemed to follow him, lightening splitting the sky, and he was dripping wet by the time he stumbled through his own front door.

Then came the guilt, followed by his grandmother’s angry questions. She’d sent Joshua back to Hyde Park to fetch the girl, but of course she was gone by then.

He should not have left her. He should have brought her home with him, and Benedict felt truly guilty over his bad behavior. She deserved an apology, and he intended to give it to her tonight.

If only she would forgive him. It was clear that Rosaline was sulking and intended to avoid him tonight.

Am I really paying the girl a hundred pounds to ignore me all night?Benedict thought, sighing to himself.

He caught sight of his grandmother in the corner, deep in conversation with a gentleman that Benedict did not recognize. He began to move towards them, intending to ask if the Dowager had seen Rosaline, and paused.

It wasn’t easy to have atete-a-tetein a place like this, yet these two were succeeded. The conversation was low and urgent, and the Dowager seemed visibly upset. As he watched, her hand lifted to her hair, patting the curls and knots, fiddling with the pins and decorations that held it in place.

It was a nervous habit, brought on by a lifetime of thick hair that constantly fought to escape its ties. Benedict didn’t see it often, and it usually meant that his grandmother was very distressed and nervous.

Benedict eyed the man, trying hard to place his face among theton. Behind him lurked a mousy-haired woman in a yellow dress. She could have been no older than twenty or twenty-one, and she was in bad looks. Her hair was disarranged, and her face red and blotchy, as though she’d been crying. She kept staring at the Dowager, who barely glanced her way.

He was in his early sixties, with heavy jowls and a balding head. He wore an ill-fitting evening suit, and had small, grey eyes that never seemed to blink.

Those eyes were fixed firmly on the Dowager, and she was not quite meeting his eye.

Something was clearly wrong. Benedict began to move towards his grandmother with purpose. However, one couldn’t be the size of Benedict without attracting attention. The stranger glanced up, his sharp eyes landing on Benedict at once.

“Ishall let you think about it, but don’t take too long. I haven’t time to waste.” He said to the Dowager, then moved away. He reached out for the woman, fastening his fingers around her wrist and towing her firmly away. The Dowager stared at the woman as they disappeared into the crowd.

Benedict considered following the man but decided his grandmother ought to be his first priority.

She turned to move away from the corner, and Benedict was shocked to see tears sparkling in her eyes.

“Grandmother? You’re crying. What’s the matter?”

The Dowager hastily wiped her cheeks. “No, I’m not.”

“You are! That man said something. What did he say?”

“Nothing, he said nothing.” The Dowager insisted, giving up the pretense of not crying. “He just… he’s an old friend of ours. Mine, that is. He reminds me of your grandfather, that’s all.”

Benedict frowned. He didn’t know much about his grandfather, but the portraits he’d seen didn’t seem to match the balding, cold-eyed gentleman at all.

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