CHAPTER 1
Mayfair, London, 1809
Dowager Countess Lydia Montrose’s Estate
“Here you go, my dear.”
With pleasure, Cecilia took the glass of champagne from her husband-to-be and took a sip. “Thank you.”
As she looked around the ballroom, she caught the faces of various ladies giving her theeye. Blithely, she ignored them.
It was to be expected when she was to marry one of the most eligible bachelors of the Ton.
At eight and twenty, Gabriel Whitmore, Duke Rutherford, was tall and breathtakingly elegant, a study in elegance from the top of his head to the champagne shine of his boots. There wasnot one blemish to his name; the man treated every lady with respect, he had no affairs, and donated to charity every year.
He wasperfect.
They had just finished a spirited Vienna waltz, and while they rested for the next dance, Cecilia used her thumb to nervously twirl the ring on her finger.
“Gabriel, how far are we on the wedding?” she asked quietly. “We haven’t spoken about this in over a month.”
His jaw tightened a bit, but when he spoke, his voice was calm, nonchalant even. “There is no rush, my dear. People have been engaged for longer than we have.”
It’s been nearly two years, and with how we started on so strongly, people are starting to talk.
“Would you like to take a turn through Hyde Park later this week?” She pressed. “We have not had an outing in over a month, too.”
“I’ll arrange something,” Gabriel murmured, his tone dismissive. What irked her, too, was that while he spoke with her, his gaze was trained on something—possiblysomeone—over her head.
Was it that hard to pay an ounce of attention to her?
“Gabriel, please—”
“I am terribly sorry, dear, but please excuse me.” His voice was flippant and even held a hint of contempt. It felt like he could not wait to get away from her. “I need to speak with someone.” He took her hand, swiftly kissing the back of it before he walked off.
Cecilia gave herself a minute to look at the broad span of the gold of his waistcoat, fashioned to mimic Alexander the Great’s golden breastplate.
It was fitting for the lady’s masquerade party, but there was nothing noble about his dismissive treatment of her. Glumly, she retreated to the seating area and joined her friends.
“That is not an expression I’d expect to see from a lady who just had a romantic dance with the love of her life,” Miss Rosalind Winston, orRosiefor those close to her, Cecilia’s bosom friend, said.
“I—” she sighed. “I do not know what to do. When I speak, it seems like it is going through one of his ears and out the other: It’s as if he’s just… absent.
“A far cry from the man who would send me a bouquet of flowers every day and would call twice a week when we were first engaged,” Cecilia groused. “He hasn’t called in the last month and—”
“A month!” Emma gasped in horror. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I…” she blew out a breath. “I did not think too much of it, you know. Dukes are men with constant business after all. But when he had not sent any flowers or cards, no invitations to take a drive, or to the opera. Not even luncheon, I felt confused and ashamed.”
“Don’t fret,” Rosie cautioned. “We can find a way to solve this. Surely, one of the many novels we’ve read has an answer to this.”
Gabriel’s bright golden hair was a beacon, and Cecilia followed it as he went to speak with some of his gentlemen friends. Friends, she belatedly realized he had never introduced her to.
Looking at the ring on her finger, a magnificent diamond, she wanted to smile—but it fell flat.
It was hard not to feel snubbed, and little by little, her hopes of one day becoming Lady Cecilia Whitmore were extinguishing.
The whole of the ton had been in agreement that the match between her and Gabriel was the love story of the season. Those present on the night of her debut swore that the moment their eyes had met across the room, every guest there had fallen silent as though sensing that the epic meeting of two perfect souls had just occurred.
