The Duke Before Christmas (The Duke Hunters Club), page 3
Portia accompanied him from the room. Cranston sent her another one of his stern expressions, and she fought for her face not to crumble.
She shouldn’t have been happy.
All her teachers had always scolded her. They’d told her to expect bad things in life if she didn’t appropriately master her dance classes and if she failed to learn an instrument well. Her piano skills remained questionable, and the few times she’d been asked to play, she’d been met by silence. Her hours of practice hadn’t been enough.
She hadn’t been enough.
Portia frowned. She refused to succumb to mawkish thoughts. She didn’t make a habit of that, and she certainly wasn’t going to develop the practice now. Sir Vincent was wrong. He wasn’t the only option she had. London wasn’t devoid of marriageable men. If her friends had found husbands, she could as well. She simply needed to find someone else who would marry her before Christmas, and Sir Seymour’s and Lady Amberley’s ball was her only option.
She raised her chin, but the task felt strenuous, as if it to concede defeat.
CHAPTER FOUR
CHRISTMAS MUSIC FILLED the ballroom, and Portia’s stomach toppled downward. She’d never associated Christmas with anything terrible, but now her mouth dried curiously, and she doubted it could be tempted by the cinnamon-and-clove crammed cocktails guests carried in their gloved hands.
How had she once enjoyed these Christmas songs? But then, before she hadn’t known about her father’s will. Before everything had been pleasant and perfect.
The musicians played with their customary precision, and she glanced at the grim-faced matchmaking mamas who lined the ballroom walls, wishing she’d taken her role of finding a husband with the same diligence and determination they’d espoused.
She needed a husband.
Now.
Naturally, she couldn’t simply stumble into a potential husband. That was the sort of thing that might happen in her daydreams. They didn’t happen in true life. If such good fortune ever happened in real life, Portia was certain such instances were confined to people sporting immaculate beauty, who drew men toward them with an efficiency only matched by candlelight that compelled various small-brained insects.
Perhaps her attire lacked the fashionable finesse of other debutantes, and perhaps she hadn’t spent her childhood playing with the men when they were both in leading strings. Her father hadn’t been prone to sociability, and she’d never had the bevy of cousins and second cousins that others took for granted. Still, Portia was reasonably intelligent. She would be able to manage a household, and she preferred to not spend the rest of her life in a house filled with servants who disparaged her. Even if she didn’t possess the sort of great beauty that made other women throw their hands up in jealousy, she couldn’t give up hope. A marriage was possible; it had to be.
She’d simply taken her first season too casually. She’d been too grateful to see her friends again, to be able to chat with them about a variety of topics, and no longer find her only socialization from stilted conversations at Sir Vincent’s long dining room table.
People bustled about Portia, and she strained to see over the feathered turbans that made even the shortest women suddenly tall and the broad-shouldered and broad-bellied men who laughed comfortably around the punch tables.
She stared at the smattering of men. She recognized Lord Edwards and smiled. The man’s face sobered, and he turned away abruptly.
She blinked.
Well, that didn’t necessarily mean anything bad. That simply meant he might have had an unpleasant thought. Not about her, of course. Perhaps about the recent Siege of Tripolitsa. That had involved many deaths. Certainly, that warranted a pensive frown. One could hardly smile if one were thinking about eight thousand civilians being massacred.
Of course, that had ended in September.
And Greece was far away.
Still, the facts remained distressing.
If he was thinking of them.
Perhaps there was another man she recognized. How could she imagine she might find someone to marry her? She glanced at various men who had accompanied her on the dance floor for reels and waltzes, but none even smiled in recognition. Her yellow dress seemed garish against the white dresses that filled the ballroom. The ruffles on the hem scarcely competed with the elaborate green and red patterns that adorned the hems on other women’s gowns.
Then she spotted Mr. Daniels. She’d danced with him on multiple occasion, and she raised her hand tentatively in a wave.
He blinked and looked around.
Women weren’t supposed to gesture to men. She knew that. Still, no one else was asking her to dance, and time was of the essence. Besides, Mr. Daniels had always seemed agreeable. Perhaps he talked about pigs with unwarranted enthusiasm, seeming to never have outgrown a childhood delight in the livestock he’d spied neighbor tenants caring for, but that was hardly a reason not to marry someone.
He approached her with some trepidation, but she pasted a bright smile on her face.
“I thought you might like to dance,” she said.
He drew his forehead together. “That was going to be my line.”
Fiddle-faddle.
“Great minds think alike.” She forced herself to retain a wide, nonchalant smile, though the effort seemed curiously difficult.
Her stomach fluttered curiously.
Perhaps this is love.
She was certain she’d heard about fluttering stomachs in books. Or were those fluttering hearts? She had the dreadful sense the latter was more likely. Still, perhaps Mr. Daniels simply made her stomach flutter. Perhaps that’s what would make them unique from other couples.
The music changed, and couples formed a minuet. Mr. Daniels extended his arm to her, and she took it. He led her to a group of dancers who were forming a long line. It would be rather more convenient if a waltz were playing.
The music took on a more jovial tone, and she began to form the patterns.
“How are you?” she asked.
Mr. Daniels’ eyebrows rose, as if startled she was addressing him. “Er—fine.”
Silence ensued, then they separated to form circles with other dancers.
“Anything on your mind?” she asked when they rejoined.
“Pigs.”
“Ah. Most—er—good preoccupation.”
“You think so?” He eyed her curiously. “Most women find them dull.”
She gave him a strained smile. “They—er—seemed interesting when you described them to me last time we met.”
“Ah.”
“In truth, I didn’t find them terribly interesting,” she said, conscious she didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. There was no use beginning a marriage under a lie. She was certain of that.
He blinked, and irritation floated over his face.
“I didn’t mean to offend—” she began, but the music shifted, and they once again danced in a circle with other partners.
When they rejoined, she flashed him an apologetic smile. “I only meant I can see why you might find them interesting.”
“Because you think my mind lacks intellect?” he asked.
“No, of course not.”
He pouted. “You wouldn’t be the first person to think that.”
This wasn’t going well. Still, she could hardly give up broaching the topic now, lest she spend the next few decades regretting the interaction. “In truth, there’s something else on my mind.”
He was silent.
“You’re supposed to ask me what,” she prompted.
“What?” he asked, his face still sullen.
Her heartbeat soared, but she forced herself to respond. “Marriage!”
His eyes widened.
“Specifically, marriage to you,” Portia added hastily. There was no point having a theoretical conversation on the benefits of matrimony. This was a time for action.
Mr. Daniels’ eyes widened further, and his eyebrows darted up. “You can’t be serious. Only the most desperate woman would concoct such a plan.”
“But I am,” she said quickly. “We can marry in a fortnight if we do the banns now.”
“You must be mad to think I would agree to such a plan.” For some reason, his gaze darted to her belly.
She blinked. “But I have money. And I’ll lose it if—”
He halted dancing, and other couples collided into them.
“Forgot how to dance, Daniels?” one man asked with a wink.
Mr. Daniels’s face grew purple.
Oh, no.
“Of course not.” He pointed at her, and her stomach fluttered uncomfortably again. She decided stomach fluttering was a bad thing. “Miss Tate just suggested marriage. In two weeks.”
Portia stiffened, and her skin heated, as if Mr. Daniels had casually thrown her into the greenery-adorned fireplace. Mr. Daniels had said those words very loudly.
“Good Lord,” another man said and shot a suspicious look at the woman he was dancing with, as if to assess the likelihood she might also suggest they entwine their lives together for the next half-century or so.
Females stared at her reproachfully, and Portia hurried away. Tears stung her eyes, and she forced her chin up.
“My dear.” A deep voice she recognized at once startled her. She turned toward Sir Vincent. “Would you care to dance?”
Portia didn’t want to dance. She didn’t want to go anywhere near the dancers. She wanted to disappear entirely.
“Perhaps not,” she said.
Sir Vincent narrowed his gaze.
“I—er—I think I see my friend,” Portia said hastily.
“Indeed?” Sir Vincent’s forehead wrinkled.
Fiddle-faddle.
Perhaps he was also thinking about how all of her friends had married.
“Which one?” he asked, his words coming out slowly, as if performing advanced mathematics to discover an unknown friend.
“Daisy,” she said, hoping she wouldn’t cry in front of him.
He widened his eyes. “Here? But she’s in a chair...”
Portia flushed. Daisy might be the most loquacious of her friends, but she didn’t walk, a fact that made her an unlikely guest at balls. Few hostesses extended invitations to her, perhaps in the mistaken belief Daisy might feel embarrassed or unhappy at any reminder she could not take part in the chief component of balls: dancing.
“Precisely,” Portia lied. “So you see, she’s quite short. You can’t see her past the other guests.”
Sir Vincent gave her a dubious nod, thankfully not inquiring why Portia could see her and not him, and Portia dashed away.
She fled the ballroom. Footsteps followed her, and Portia quickly opened the door to another room. She found a candle and candlestick to her right and lit it with a match. Good Portia would never have done this, but there was no sense being Good Portia anymore.
CHAPTER FIVE
COLIN TURNED AROUND slowly and tried to emanate innocence. Perhaps the maid had changed her mind. Perhaps she was going to holler and call everyone to her.
“You’ll need to wear a livery.” The maid jerked her thumb to the side. “The butler keeps spare ones for the footmen in that room.”
“Of course,” Colin said, and his heart beat merrily. He’d succeeded.
Colin entered the ballroom wearing his new livery and placed the tray on the punch table.
A footman wielding a silver platter topped with delicacies frowned and glided toward Colin with an uncomfortable rapidity for someone supposedly offering guests canapés.
Blast.
Colin needed to leave the ballroom before someone recognized him.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” The footman scanned his face.
“No, I’m new,” Colin said casually, angling himself away from the guests. “Just for tonight.”
The footman’s eyes narrowed. “But we have a full staff.”
“I suppose Sir Seymour wanted to make certain everything goes smoothly tonight,” Colin said hastily, lest someone recognize his voice.
Sir Seymour, for instance, could recognize him, as could Sir Seymour’s wife, Lady Amberley. Or their son, Cecil. Fortunately, Colin’s new livery seemed an effective disguise. No one expected a duke to serve canapés.
“Everything always goes smoothly,” the footman said. “I’m certain you’re not needed.”
Colin quickly realized this was a conversation worth avoiding, and he dashed away. Hopefully the footman was too busy to actually send a parade of well-muscled footmen after him, but just in case, Colin needed to find the library and relevant papers quickly. Sandridge better be dashed grateful.
Colin exited the ballroom, then entered a black-and-white-tiled passage. A lantern sat on a sideboard, conveniently at the space where the light from the foyer dimmed, and he picked it up and lit it. He moved hastily through the corridor, in case someone wondered at the flickering light, but no one was here. He soon came to a deep green room that contained a large desk.
Success.
Colin grinned and entered. There weren’t many books in this library—in fact, there might well be fewer books here than in any other library he’d ever visited, but he’d found Sir Seymour’s desk. That desk was unmistakable. It was large and important looking and just the type Sir Seymour might be prone to acquire.
Rustling sounded, and a figure ducked behind an armchair.
“Good evening?” Colin asked.
No sound responded, but then, perhaps people hiding behind armchairs were unlikely to engage in the niceties of greeting exchanges.
Colin hesitated and contemplated hiding. No one was supposed to be here—he could hardly rifle through Sir Seymour’s papers before an observer.
Still, efficiency was to be prized. Colin tiptoed toward the armchair to get a better view of the person who’d claimed it as a hiding space. He moved quickly over the thick carpet, and Colin felt a sudden rush of gratitude for the fact Sir Seymour did not come from a long line of barons who would have bestowed him with tasteful, thin worn rugs over which centuries of portly ancestors had trod.
A woman was hiding behind the armchair.
A woman in a bright yellow dress, the color vivid despite the dim light.
She scrambled up, and he was aware of luscious dark hair falling from an imperfectly knotted updo. “I—er—”
“I’m afraid I startled you,” Colin said jovially.
This must be one of the guests from the ball. Not one of Sir Seymour’s relatives, though judging from the pained expressions they normally wore, their loyalty to him was perhaps less sturdy than one might have assumed.
“I’m sorry. I thought I was the only person here.” The woman shrank back. There was something intriguing about the movement of her shoulders. It was odd he’d never contemplated women’s shoulders before. Perhaps he’d simply spent so long contemplating everything else that it was natural to finally dwell upon them. She was shorter than him and appeared vaguely familiar. Perhaps he’d seen her at a ball before, though he was certain he would remember if he’d danced with her.
He tended to avoid the rows of wallflowers at each ball and the matchmaking mamas beside them. Though most of the matchmaking mamas had attacked him with the ferocity of eagles when they’d first encountered him, throwing in conversations about their daughters’ taste, symmetrical features that had been present for so many generations that there was no doubt they would birth babies with equally pleasing features, and various artistic and musical abilities. Now though, all of the matchmaking mamas seemed to have resigned themselves to the fact he had little interest in securing an heir. Having several younger brothers, some of whom already had their own children, rather made the necessity weaker. Despite his eagerness to attend balls, Colin had never courted anyone with much interest. Singledom seemed vastly superior to marriage, and Colin always preferred the more superior activity.
“I should leave,” the woman said.
“Very well.”
The woman continued to scrutinize his face. He hoped she wasn’t going to burst into a simpering recitation of “Your Grace.” When people said “Your Grace,” it only served to remind him he wasn’t supposed to have had that honor—his older brother was.
The strange woman tilted her head, and another glossy strand fell from her chignon. “What’s it like to be a servant?”
He blinked. Evidently, she hadn’t recognized him. “Exhausting.”
She emitted a heavy sigh. “I was afraid of that.”
He frowned. “Why ever do you ask?”
“I’m thinking of becoming one,” she said mournfully.
His eyebrows jolted up. “Forgive me for being presumptuous, but it strikes me that that is a most odd vocation for a young woman like yourself.”
The woman took a long gulp from her tumbler. “I’m going to lose my money after Christmas.”
“Indeed?”
She nodded. “My father said so in his dratted will. It’s all going to be gone. Gone, gone, gone.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes,” she said miserably, and she hiccupped. “Excuse me. I said dratted,” the woman said mournfully. “Dratted isn’t the most polite word. Er—sorry.”
“I’ll live,” Colin said easily. “Bonaparte’s army said worse things. The British army said worse things too.”
“You were at war?”
Colin nodded, bracing himself for some giggles about his heroism and some improper venturing into upper arm squeezing.
Instead, she gave him a sympathetic look. Her eyes were large. The dim light couldn’t reveal their exact color, but he didn’t need to see a color to tell they were appealing.
“It must be strange not to be fighting,” the woman mused.
“It is.” Colin stared at her.
“I thought my life would be different too,” she said, and her voice wobbled again. Colin knew when to be a gentleman, and he offered her a handkerchief.
She blew her noise noisily. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be talking.”
“I’ll keep it a secret,” he said amiably.
