She snorted. “Are you not the heir, then?”
“Yes, but …” He frowned. Yes, Grayson was the heir, always had been. As long as his brother lacked children of his own, Grayson was the next in line. Had his brother chosen to go to war knowing those he was responsible for would be taken care of by his heir, by Grayson? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Kingsley had been impulsive to a fault.
But Lady Willow unknowingly made an excellent point. Perhaps happiness and responsibility weren’t antithetical.
“You’re an interesting woman, Lady Willow. I wish I’d gotten to know you better.”
“Am I interesting?”
“I’ll need to speak with your father tomorrow morning.”
“I assume it’s not to make a formal proposal.”
“I—”
“I don’t mind. Whether it’s a proposal or not doesn’t matter.” Her eyes drifted across the ballroom, as if already looking for a spectacle more deserving of her attention. “Have you ever been so utterly bored, you don’t care what happens next?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“I’ve a premonition that’s how I’d feel if we married. I’m not certain I wish to feel that way. Now or ever. Besides, at least being jilted and fending off the gossips will be diverting.” She winced, a small ripple disrupting her usual composure. “I hope Father feels the same.”
He patted her hand where it lay limply on his forearm. “You will not find yourself the object of gossip. I promise. I will do all in my power to make myself out the devil and you the angel of this debacle.” He escorted her back to her seat at the side of the ballroom. “Can I get you any—”
“Leave. Please. I’m perfectly fine.” She waved him away and guilt sliced him through. He should apologize, but her attention had already drifted away from him, so he drifted into the crowd surrounding the dancers. He found the stairs leading to the guest rooms. He would speak once more with the Duke of Valingford tomorrow, but now the only voice he wanted to hear belonged to the conveniently unengaged Henrietta Blake.
Chapter 13
Henrietta had not expected the hallway to be so crowded on a night all guests reveled in the ballroom. Of course, her hallway companion wasn’t exactly a guest. Lord Rigsby’s valet crept behind her, as he had all evening, despite her attempts to lose him.
Why did he follow her? His master had ordered him to, clearly, but there she butted up against another “why?” Did Lord Rigsby wish to ensure she handed over the necklace should she find it? His sort didn’t trust her sort, after all.
She sighed, lifting her candle higher to see farther down the hall. She was being unfair to Lord Rigsby. She’d never known him to hold the same prejudices against her class that all of his class seemed to hold. But then, he had jilted her as soon as he’d become the future duke. Damning evidence against him, that. Either way, he had no right to send his valet trailing after her.
She’d put it to a stop immediately.
Henrietta turned and straightened her shoulders. “Willems, may I help you?”
Willems dodged behind a nearby chair and table, unable to hide his tall frame entirely.
“I see you, you know. I’ve seen you since you started trailing me in the conservatory. No use hiding.”
He stood, straightened his clothes, and pierced her with a direct stare. “Good evening, Miss Blake.”
She offered him a polite smile. “Could you please desist? I’ve my own shadow, you know, and do not need another.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I assume this is Lord Rigsby’s doing.”
No answer, though he needn’t provide one.
“Of course, it is Lord Rigsby. Well, why ever your master put you up to this, you can stop. Now.”
“I’m afraid not.”
She huffed, and the candle flickered dangerously. “Listen here, Willems—”
“It’s all right, Willems. I’m here now. You can retire to bed as you please.”
