Valeria nearly stumbled again, stunned to a halt by her cousin’s words. She had not thought about what people might say, nor had she heard anyone gossiping about her, but what if she had made a misstep? Her heart began to race, a cold sweat prickling down the back of her neck.
But it was the most fun I had… I do not want to regret it.
“No, there is no one I favor,” she said flatly, her throat tight. “Certainly not a rake like His Grace. It was just a dance.”
Beatrice gave a small nod, a glint of suspicion in her eyes. “Well, he didyoua great favor. If anything, it made you moredesirable to these gentlemen. Bizarrely, it appears as if that man’s attention is something akin to a mark of approval.”
“Yes, well, I do not need his approval,” Valeria muttered, returning to the matter of escaping the ball, gently pulling Beatrice along through the throng of guests.
As she walked toward the smoking room to fetch her father, her heart weighed heavy in her chest. She hadnotended the night with an offer of courtship, or an offer of a second meeting. Indeed, not even Duncan had asked if he might see her again. For a moment, she had thought he might invite her to undertake more lessons in private, but the request had not appeared.
Is that not what I wanted?She no longer knew, her mind fogged with a confusion that began and ended with him.
In many ways, she wished she had not intervened in the gardens of that first ball, for then she might have been spared the bewilderment of being around him, getting to know him, and being shadowed by the ‘debt’ she had tried to refuse. And, perhaps, if that lady had succeeded in her plan, he would be a married man by now, unable to torment and confuse her with his flirtations.
Still, it was too late to undo those things now. She just had to hope that the feeling of enjoying his company, more than any other man, would pass quickly. Otherwise, her own plans would surely go up in smoke, taking Skeffington House with them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“You seem rather subdued this morning,” Lionel remarked with a wry smile, drawing a folded piece of paper from his pocket.
“Do I?” Duncan replied drily.
Lionel chuckled. “I imagine you had an enjoyable evening.”
“It was… passable.” Duncan shrugged, lifting his gaze to the sky to watch a few seagulls wheeling.
The sun cast a foggy sort of light across the city, catching the mist that rolled up from the Thames. The afternoon heat would burn it away eventually but, for now, the air had a pleasant cool to it. Duncan would not have emerged from his townhouse at all if the day had threatened to be scorching, content to keep to the shade, away from streets where he might cross paths with Valeria.
“Passable?” Lionel frowned. “Were you forced to drown the tedium?”
Duncan flashed his friend a pointed look. “I am not suffering the ill effects of being inebriated, Lionel. I did not sleep well and, as such, I am a little grumpy. But what is grumpiness between friends?”
“It is just a surprise,” Lionel said, his gaze drifting down the street. “I cannot remember the last time I saw you grumpy. Why did you not sleep well? Did you have company?”
Duncan groaned. “No, I did not. I was alone, I could not sleep, and my mood is reflective of that.” He paused. “Now, for what exciting endeavor have you dragged me from my bed?”
He had already agreed to meet with Lionel that morning and was not the sort of fellow who cared to cancel plans with his dearest friends. Of course, he would have preferred to still be in bed, trying to force his inability to sleep into submission, but he had no doubt that a few hours with his friend would restore him in a different way. Sleep for the soul, rather than the body.
“I am meeting a man about a new horse,” Lionel replied, frowning. “As you are the horseman, I need you with me, so I do not make a poor decision. But first, my darling wife has asked me to put an order in at the dressmaker. Ibelieveit is that one there.”
He pointed ahead to a charming shop with a jade green exterior, curved lettering above the windows and lintel marking it as:The Ladybird: Dressmaker and Seamstress.The bay window winked in the sunlight, where three wooden models displayed beautiful gowns of muslin, silk, and bombazine.
“You have brought me to buy gowns for your wife?” Duncan arched an eyebrow, smothering his annoyance.
Lionel laughed. “It will not take long, I promise.” He hesitated. “You still have not said why you did not sleep well. Are you unwell? Was there some disturbance in the night?”
Only the persistent bombardment of Miss Maxwell, seeking me out in the darkness, disrupting my peace.
He had thought of nothing but her since his return from the ball, finding no distraction from the visions of her that crept into his head. He could not go anywhere in his townhouse without thinking about her, wondering if she might come to him despite the lack of invitation. He hadalludedto dance lessons, after all. And when she had not appeared—understandably—the disappointment had been rather bitter, leaving him restless.
“It was warm,” Duncan said instead.
Lionel nodded at that. “Itwasterribly warm. That, I suppose, is the peril of summer in the city.” He sighed. “Oh, how I miss Westyork.”
A bell jingled above the door as the two gentlemen entered. An older lady with lacquered gray hair waved amiably frombehind the counter, welcoming the pair. Her keen blue eyes rested a moment longer on Duncan, who gave a subtle nod: they were well acquainted after his most recent purchases, though no one—particularly Lionel—needed to know that. Indeed, the proprietor, Mrs. Bird, was nothing if not discreet.
As Lionel proceeded onward to speak with Mrs. Bird, Duncan occupied himself with the bolts of beautiful fabrics that adorned the walls in boxed-off shelves: silks, satins, muslins, calicoes, cottons, finely woven wool, anything and everything for every season and style.
