His townhouse, he should say, and his library. His father had departed this world, and the estate belonged to him. He was the Duke now, with all the responsibilities that accompanied that title. And still, after all that time holed up in London contemplating his future, he was not sure what he felt about it. Even though he had known for his whole life that it was his destiny to inherit the great estate one day, he had hoped in his heart that the day would not come quite so soon.
“Causing quite a stir, aren’t we, Seton?” a deep voice boomed in his ear, jolting him out of his reverie.
Luke turned to see the beaming smile of his closest friend, Mark Lewis, the Marquess of Miller. He felt a surge of relief to see a familiar and beloved face.
“Ah, you’re here at last. Thank the lord for that. I was beginning to think you had fallen off your horse and cracked your skull on the way here.”
“I’m surprised you noticed my absence when there is so much else going on,Your Grace.” He gave an exaggerated bow as he said those last words.
“Pray, none of that, Miller. Not from you,” Luke said flatly. “I am not at all accustomed to it yet. Whenever I hear someone say those words, I feel like I should be looking over my shoulder to see where my father is.”
Mark frowned, his sandy hair falling over his eyes as he did so. “I do apologize, my dear fellow. I wasn’t thinking. I take it you have now finished your business in town and are returned to Seton Hall?”
Luke nodded. “For the time being I shall remain here, unless there are urgent matters to attend to in London. I felt the need for some fresh air and countryside views, after so long in the city, perhaps even a little sport, should the opportunity arise.” He took another sip of his wine and looked fondly at his friend. “I am glad, indeed, that you are here, Mark. At least I shall be able to find one person with whom to have a sensible conversation.”
Mark laughed. “You flatter me, but I am always glad to keep you company.” He raised his glass and chinked it against Luke’s. “Cheers!”
“To your excellent health,” Luke returned and drank again. The two men stood in silence for a while, and Luke watched the groups of people milling about the ballroom. Once again, he tried to ignore the glances of various ladies in his direction and the whispers that followed.
“You can’t say that you haven’t noticed, then,” Mark said in a low voice, following Luke’s gaze towards a particular group, among whom stood a lady well-known in the ton for being ruthless in her pursuit of good matches for her five unmarried daughters. She was making a great show of hiding behind her fan, but it was clear that her attention had been caught by the appearance of the Duke and that she would talk about nothing else for the duration of the evening.
“Of course, I’ve noticed,” Luke snapped, a little irritably. “I don’t know why they all peer at me as if I am some sort of circus attraction.”
“Your return has been the talk of the ton,” Mark replied. “You cannot blame them when you have not been seen in society here for such a long time.”
Luke shrugged. “I suppose not. It’s simply that I don’t consider myself to be particularly interesting. I cannot think why they are all so fascinated by me.”
Mark let out a guffaw, attracting the attention of another group nearby, who all turned around to stare at them.
“For heaven’s sake, Miller!” Luke said. “Must you make it worse?”
“Forgive me, but surely you know why you’re such an object of fascination? They all want you for their daughters, of course!”
Luke rolled his eyes. Of course, he knew; he was just trying to ignore the unpalatable truth for as long as possible. He had shown up to the ball tonight, knowing that it was what his father would have expected of him, even though the prospect of an evening spent with the people of the ton did not exactly fill him with delight. But he was the Duke of Seton, and society expected him to show his face. And they would expect him to dance with their daughters, too, and then eventually select one to be his bride.
He sighed. “Perhaps I should have stayed in London.”
“I don’t understand why you are so morose, my friend,” Mark said with a lopsided grin. “I know your feel the loss of your father most keenly, and I do not blame you for that. You were fortunate to have such a good man as your father, indeed, and not all of us are so lucky.” He paused, a cloud of darkness crossing his face before he continued. “But you have the world at your feet. You could take your pick of any of these fine ladies. You may as well enjoy it, you know, while you can!”
Luke shrugged. “They are all so incredibly dull, though, don’t you think? They have nothing of interest to say for themselves, and they all look the same.”
Mark laughed again. “You just haven’t found the right one yet, that’s all. When she comes along, you won’t find her dull at all. Now, you must go and mingle and dance. It is what’s expected of us gentlemen, after all. It will not do to leave the ladies standing on the sidelines while we gossip like washerwomen. I shall find you later and compare notes.” Mark drained his glass, set it down on a nearby table, and strode across the room towards a group of young ladies who all had their dance cards clutched in their hands. They looked up at him eagerly as he approached, a flurry of satin and giggles.
Luke groaned inwardly and stepped backward into that shadowy corner where he had been trying so hard to conceal himself earlier on. Just a little longer before he launched himself into society in earnest again. Just a little longer.
* * *
Charlotte did her best to ignore the stares and giggles as they entered the ballroom. She tried hard, as she always did at times like this, to think of her mother. Her mother would not have cared what these people thought of her. She would have held her head high and crossed the room proudly, not giving a fig if people considered her strange. Everybody knew that her mother had been an unusual woman, which was why they viewed Charlotte and Martha with such suspicion and disdain. But Charlotte did not have the confidence that her mother had to disregard their parochial opinions and ignore their impertinent glances.
“Come on, let’s find somewhere out of the way where we can talk,” she whispered to Martha almost as soon as they were through the doors. “I don’t want to walk through the middle of the hall; let’s go over there.” She pointed to an archway of flowers at the edge of the ballroom, which seemed to lead into a small anteroom.
Martha nodded and allowed her sister to lead her around the edge of the ballroom and through the archway. They stood to one side, with a good vantage point of the action in the ballroom but almost out of sight of prying eyes.
Charlotte felt her sister’s shoulders drop in relief as they stood close together in the corner. Martha was shy, almost painfully so, and found these events just as trying as Charlotte did, although perhaps for different reasons.
“Do you think he will be here tonight, sister?” Martha asked quietly.
Charlotte realized that she had been scanning the room rather too obviously, hoping for a glimpse of him. Lord Harry. The object of her affection and the writer of her secret letters. But he was nowhere to be seen.
