Syd tried not to gloat, but this first win over the wretched girl felt awfully good.
Of greater concern was Lady Harcourt.
Syd felt her venom from across the ballroom.
Lord Winstone and his wife had opened the ball with a waltz, to the surprise of the elders in the crowd who looked upon this with disapproval. But many of the younger couples were delighted and eagerly stepped onto the dance floor to join in the first dance.
Octavian took her hand. “Come on, Syd. Try to look up at me adoringly as we waltz.”
She laughed. “It shall be quite a struggle, but I will do my best.”
If anyone questioned whether theirs was a love match, this waltz removed all doubt. Syd could not hold back. Everyone sawthe love in her eyes the moment Octavian took her in his arms and began to twirl her around the dance floor.
No one could overlook the happiness gleaming in his eyes, either.
When Lady Harcourt approached them at the end of the dance, hatred oozing from her every pore, the guests were already inclined to dismiss the scandal as the nonsensical ranting of a troubled woman.
Octavian placed a protective arm around Syd’s waist.
Perhaps some of his good sense flowed into her, because she suddenly had no desire to destroy this pathetic woman. How better to disarm her than to show sympathy instead of rage? “Lady Harcourt, you need not do this,” she said, reaching out to offer her hand. “You are only hurting yourself.”
“Me? Hurt? I am beyond hurt.” She laughed loudly, her laughter bordering on the maniacal. “Your very presence is a blight that will never be removed until you die. I wish you both dead, you and Harcourt!”
That earned several gasps from those who were listening in.
Syd was also shocked and deeply wounded by the remark. She dropped her hand to her side, feeling quite sad rather than angry. This was the woman she had always believed was her mother. Yes, a flawed and icy mother, but still the woman she had always thought would nurture and protect her, if ever the need arose.
Children were like this, needing no more than a speck of affection to soothe their young hearts. Syd was no longer that hopeful child. But even now, despite knowing the truth, she never wanted to hurt this woman. “Please, let us not do this here.”
“Who are you to tell me what to do? You are soiled and baseborn. You are a nobody and do not belong here!”
“Enough!” Lord Winstone roared as he approached, the look on his face seething.
Syd was not certain to whom he was directing this anger…well, it had to be Lady Harcourt or else he would have quietly rescinded the invitation to her and Octavian upon the scandal breaking if he did not want them here. Behind him strode two men. One was her father…well, she would always think of Lord Harcourt as her father. But she did not know who the other man was.
Others apparently did, for she quickly heard a murmur rolling through the crowd like a gentle wave upon the water. “Parkhurst,” was the name on everyone’s lips.
“His Grace,” some guests whispered, pressing closer to see what would next unfold.
“Reclusive duke,” others whispered. “Just come out of mourning.”
Syd realized this man whose name was Parkhurst had to be the brother who had now succeeded to the title of duke upon the passing of his father. If what Syd’s father had told her was true, this brother was the one who had married the Marquess of Sutton’s betrothed after his death.
Syd’s heart broke as she looked upon him. Was the Marquess of Sutton truly her father? Did the present duke standing before her now resemble him in any way? Was she in the presence of her uncle?
Octavian drew her closer to his side, his protective instincts on fire. This man who did not flinch in the face of battle, who had calmly stood his ground when surrounded by reivers and Scottish warriors, this man who was the very definition of poise under fire, looked ready to throw punches if another insult was hurled at her.
She was now the one to take his hand and give it a light squeeze to assure him that she was all right.
She felt his tension, and knew he was riled and had reached his tipping point. She would never allow him to throw a punch.
No, she was going to throw the punches if any were warranted.
Octavian must have sensed her thoughts, for his tension suddenly eased and he grinned at her. “Behave yourself, minx,” he whispered.
“You too, you big ox.”
Lord Harcourt now stepped between everyone. “My apologies, Lord Winstone. My wife is not well, as you can plainly see,” he said, shooting Lady Harcourt a quelling look.
