“He said he would write to you soon,” Hanna said.
Arabella took a deep breath, while Emma dropped her arms.
“He wrote to you? When? Why did you not tell me?”
Not this again. Please. Not tonight…
“Because of how you’d react,” Hanna replied, waving a finger up and down at her sister.
Emma, her voice tinged with bitterness, replied, “He is abhorrent. Alexander is almost worse than Father.”
“Come now,” Hanna said. “He is not. And why should he have to take care of us? He is our brother, not our father. Besides, we are old enough to have found husbands.”
“Speak for yourself,” Emma fired back. “I am only in my second Season, not my third like some people.”
“Can’t you swallow your spleens for once?” Hanna hissed.
Arabella rubbed her temples, incapable of taking this argument much longer. This was only her second ball, and it was turning into a disaster. She felt the walls closing in, the noise becoming overwhelming. It was bad enough that their father continued to make them miserable, but her sisters’ bickering was spiraling out of control as well.
“I need to go outside for some air,” she said, but her sisters were too absorbed in their discussion to hear her.
Arabella made her way through the crowd and toward the terrace. The night air was cool and refreshing, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside. She stepped out into the garden, taking deep breaths and letting the calmness of the night wash over her.
The stars twinkled above, and for a moment, she felt a sense of peace away from the demands and expectations that weighed so heavily on her.
CHAPTER 2
“… s
uch a grand ball,” a woman said to her companion as she passed.
“Indeed, a night for love,” her dance partner agreed as they headed to the dance floor.
Harry Ridlington, the Duke of Sheffield, rolled his eyes at the notion and then looked out over the dance floor. People were twirling to the sound of the quadrille, their muted chatter and giggles filling the ballroom and mingling with the whispers of those who stood around the dance floor to watch.
He took a swig of his cognac and leaned against the wall, one foot crossed over the other. A quick glance at his pocket watch revealed that it was far too early to leave. It was bad form to leave one of these balls before midnight.
“Your Grace,” a feminine voice said beside him.
He turned, unpleasantly surprised to be drawn from his thoughts. A woman stood before him, her blonde hair styled elaborately atop her head. Her blue gown flowed around her hips in the A-line style that was currently popular.
For a moment, he smiled as he recalled the details of contemporary fashion—empire waists and muslin fabric, pastel colors, and discreet makeup. He knew that it was all but an affront to good taste to wear puce-colored garments, and that men were supposed to soak their pantaloons overnight to achieve the tight look he saw on many gentlemen tonight. Then he thought of the reason why he knew all of this, about the young lady who’d taught him, and the smile froze on his lips, for she would never dance at a ball, never wear those gowns she’d so admired. Not now, not ever.
“You have a lovely smile,” the woman said, snapping him back to reality.
“Thank you,” he muttered, finding it quite unusual that the woman would be so forward in her manner of addressing him.
He wasn’t used to it, nor did he like to be paid Spanish coin. Harry saw his scowling visage reflected in her eyes and noted the way her cheeks twitched with uncertainty.
“Lady Unah Baxter,” the woman said, as though he should remember her. He did not.
“Lady Unah.” He nodded once. “It is nice to make your acquaintance.”
This time, her smile faltered entirely, and she pouted. “We met at dinner at Sir Richard’s home, not a fortnight ago,” she reminded him, the accusation seeping into her voice.
Of course. Sir Richard Templeton, his uncle, had a penchant for hosting dinners and balls at his home in the hope of elevating his status in Society. As the second son of an earl, he had been cursed to always stand behind his brother. He’d never had a hope of becoming an earl, especially not now that his older brother had several sons of his own.
Indeed, it had looked as though the closest his uncle would ever come to a title or power was when he’d been knighted due to his valiant service in His Majesty’s army. That was until Harry had become his ward and the management of the Dukedom of Sheffield had fallen to him, as per Harry’s father’s will.
