Chapter 16
The party was to take place mostly outside. Somehow, that made it more claustrophobic, not less. Any escape would be more noticeable with people more spread out.
Pembroke Abbey, a crumbling old structure which was said to have more ghosts than any other house in London—including Lady Pembroke herself—loomed behind them.
Christian had attended several parties there, and they were not often pleasant.
Still, as a fixture in London Society, Lady Pembroke’s invitations were not to be snubbed.
Nor was her son.
Mr. Pembroke slunk around the garden, squinting up at the sky as if he expected the fireworks to begin at any moment. A few brave women approached him, and one determined—or desperate—mama.
Most of them, however, seemed keen to make a beeline for Christian.
“Your Grace, Your Grace, are you fond of watercolors?” chirped a beribboned young lady at his elbow.
He blinked down at her, trying desperately to recall her name.
Was it Miss Polly Patterson, or was it Petunia?
There were two Miss Pattersons with barely a year between them.
The wretched girls looked almost identical with their spanieleque flaxen-blonde ringlets and their profusion of colored ribbons, but they flew into a rage if they were addressed incorrectly.
With their flat, childish faces, lisps, and boxy figures, they could easily have been taken for many years younger. The girls were twenty, he had been told by somebody, but they appeared no older than fourteen or fifteen.
Well, some gentlemen might like such childish looks, but Christian was not one of them.
He discreetly shifted his arm, dislodging what he assumed was Miss Polly’s grip on his elbow. “I… I have no strong opinions on watercolors,” he managed.
Mrs. Patterson, who looked like an aged version of her daughters, lingered a little way off, watching him with sharp eyes. A gnarled old woman, Mrs. Drummer, stood beside her daughter, watching with resignation.
“Well, I should show you mine sometimes,” Miss Polly lisped, blinking her doll-blue eyes.
“He doesn’t want to see your daubings, Poll!
” Miss Petunia sniffed, tossing her bright blue ribbons.
“Yours are so very ugly. My paintings, on the other hand, are quite something. You’ll understand when you see them.
She only paints landscapes, but I paint seascapes. They’re entirely more elevated.”
“Ugh!” Miss Polly huffed. “Not at all. Your Grace, her paintings are just ugly blue-and-white waves. No depth, nothing interesting. If you would pay us a call, you’ll see.”
Ah, to the meat of the matter, then.
On cue, Mrs. Patterson surged forward, seizing at his wrist. “Yes, Your Grace, you really must pay us a call!” she urged, beaming. “Shall we set a date?”
Time to pull back.
Christian cleared his throat, keeping a smile on his face, and disentangled his arm from Mrs. Patterson’s grasping hands.
“I am afraid that you have me mistaken for somebody else, madam,” he said gently. “We have not been introduced. Perhaps this is simply a case of mistaken identity, do you think?”
Mrs. Patterson’s face fell. “Oh,” she stammered. “Silly me. I had not realized that we were not introduced.”
Christian bit back a smile. Of course, no sensible host would rush to introduce young, eligible ladies to a man like him.
Mrs. Patterson knew quite well there was no introduction, but she had clearly decided to risk it anyway in the hope of throwing her girls in the path of a duke. She was set to be disappointed.
While she was still stammering for an excuse, he gently slipped past her.
Mrs. Drummer blinked sharp, wise eyes at him. “My granddaughters are not good enough for you then, Your Grace?” she whispered softly.
He bowed. “I’m afraid it is more a case of me not being good enough for them, madam.”
He extended a hand, and she placed hers in it almost without thinking. He bowed over her hand.
“Perhaps I might call on you, though, madam?” he asked, casting a playful glance at her.
Mrs. Drummer reddened, then broke into a guffaw. “Oh, you are a card! Very funny, Your Grace, very funny indeed!”
He straightened up, flashing her a grin, and sketched another bow. She shook her head, chuckling in amusement.
He moved past, keen to leave the cloying Pattersons behind. He could feel their eyes on his back as he walked away, and he heard Miss Polly whisper to her sister, “That was your fault!”
“Was not! You were the one banging on about watercolors.”
“Hush, both of you!” came Mrs. Patterson’s sibilant whisper. No doubt she thought she was being a great deal quieter than she was. “There are other fish in the sea. He was a long shot, in any case.”
A long shot, Christian thought, turning the word over and over in his mind. Yes, I daresay that I am a very long shot indeed.
Lady Pembroke eyed him from a distance, her displeasure emanating from every pore.
No doubt she would be very pleased to order him out of her house or never to have invited him at all.
However, one did not simply neglect to invite a duke.
Not in London, not during the Season. Even the presence of a rake like Christian would attract some ladies and their ambitious mamas.
Generally speaking, he would have avoided coming to such an event in the past on account of said mamas and their daughters. But Thalia would be here tonight with her translations. And of course, that was all he really cared about—the translations.
Even as he told himself that as firmly as he could manage, he remembered the taste of her lips, the feel of her body, soft and firm against his. He clenched his jaw.
Not in the middle of a party, for heaven’s sake. At least, wait for the fireworks.
A figure appeared beside him, making him flinch.
“You seem on edge.” It was, of course, Edwin.
“I am,” Christian responded. “Where is your dear wife?”
“Heaven knows. Cornering some poor acquaintance, no doubt. They’re all talking eagerly about when she’ll go into her confinement, and I haven’t the heart to tell them that there’ll be no confinement.” Edwin chuckled, taking a long sip of whiskey. “Daphne needs no such thing.”
“She is fearsome,” Christian agreed.
Edwin glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “There’s talk about you and Lady Thalia.”
“So I hear. Has she arrived yet?”
He gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Not that I know of. At any rate, Mr. Pembroke has heard the talk.”
“What talk?”
“About you and Lady Thalia, you wretch.”
“Oh.”
“He isn’t happy. Apparently, a match with her was arranged between him and her brother, but now that you are here, things have changed.
The Marquess wants to hedge his bets. It is, after all, more impressive to marry one’s sister to a duke than to an ordinary mister.
After all, it is Mr. Pembroke’s older brother who inherited the title. ”
Christian sniffed. “That is not my concern.”
“It might become your concern. Christian, if you don’t intend to wed the woman, then—”
“Of course I don’t.”
“I’m only concerned that—”
“Enough, please.”
Edwin wisely closed his mouth.
Christian shifted, a little shocked at how quickly he had become angry. Since when had the mention of a woman—even Thalia—made him snap at his old friend?
He cast a quick glance at Edwin. “Sorry, I am a little on edge.”
Edwin chuckled. “I’m not angry. Oh, look, here they are.”
There was no need to elaborate on who they were.
Tensing, Christian glanced over at the entrance of the gardens, just in time to see Thalia walking in. Her brother strode ahead of her, pinch-faced and looking thoroughly unhappy with the situation. An older woman had her arm hooked through Thalia’s, and they were whispering together.
Christian swallowed thickly. Thalia was wearing a delicate blue silk gown, one that hugged her curves beautifully. The color flattered her, too.
He wasn’t sure about her shawl, though. It looked very pretty but certainly not warm enough for the chilly night. She ought to have worn something warmer.
A light breeze stirred her hair, a long bright red tendril escaping her knot and fluttering out behind her.
Heat pooled in his gut. He imagined striding across the lawn, wrapping an arm around her waist, and pulling her towards him. He imagined kissing her in full view of everybody, deep and passionately enough to make them all swoon in shock.
He cleared his throat.
Remember your place in all this. Remember her place.
He glanced briefly at his friend and found Edwin already looking at him, his eyes glinting with amusement.
“What on earth are you looking at?” He scowled.
Edwin chuckled. “Oh, nothing. I am just thinking that the look on your face reminds me very much of mine once upon a time.”
“Oh, enough,” Christian huffed. “Excuse me, I had better go and greet them.”
He strode across the lawn, trying not to think about the earlier fantasy of himself grabbing Thalia and kissing her senseless.
“Lady Thalia,” he greeted once he was close enough. “How good to see you.”
Thalia’s gaze shot up to his, long and intent. There was light in the garden, of course, torches and braziers and candles strung over their heads as if they were at Vauxhall. Still, the buttery glow was not quite enough to illuminate her face entirely. He could not read her eyes properly.
“Your Grace,” she returned, as polite as always. “Have you met my stepmother? This is Lady Augusta Hamilton, the Dowager Marchioness of Hawton.”
He bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Hawton.”
Lady Hawton bobbed a neat curtsey, watching him closely. He thought he saw a knowing spark in her eyes, but it was simpler to pretend that he did not.
“And I believe you and I have already met,” interjected an annoyed voice to his left.
Breathing in, Christian turned with a smile on his face. “Lord Hawton,” he greeted.
“Please,” the Marquess said, smiling tightly. “We can be more informal than that, surely? Or do you prefer the helpful buffer of formality?”
“I have no preference,” Christian answered sweetly. “I am glad to see you all here. Are you fond of fireworks?”
To his surprise, Lady Hawton answered. “Oh, yes, very much so! I confess, I don’t often attend parties these days. Of course, I ought to on account of Thalia and the Season and such, but truly, I am simply too tired. I daresay you find it shocking.”
“Not at all,” he assured her, smiling. “I find balls and parties to be a little unsettling, in truth. It’s hardly a natural scenario. Conversation has never come easily to me, to say nothing of conversation with strangers.”
“And yet here we are,” the Marquess remarked briskly. “Let’s not complain too much about what cannot be changed. Thalia, do you have your dance card?”
A not-so-subtle hint. The implication was clear. If Christian wished to show his interest in Thalia, he had better ask her to dance quickly.
Dancing would not help them achieve their goals. He needed to talk to her privately, but a carefully engineered dance, with her stepmother and brother watching their every move, would not give them a chance to talk.
So, he did not offer to dance. Instead, he glanced straight at her. He found her staring back at him. There was heat in her gaze.
No, perhaps that was his imagination. Perhaps it was wishful thinking. He imagined heat in her gaze because he wanted so badly for it to be true.
The realization sent a shiver down his spine.
I want her to desire me. Perhaps she already does. But then, what good would that do her? What good would it do any of us?
Once again, he would have to be content with questions that could not be answered.
“Perhaps I can escort you to the refreshments table, Lady Thalia?” he asked mildly. “I believe the punch is quite good.”
Before Thalia could speak, or before her brother could intervene on her behalf, a rather bulky man shouldered his way past Christian.
Christian blinked, a little shocked that someone would dare shove him. Then he got a good look at the man and fought not to roll his eyes.
It seemed likely that Mr. Pembroke would not be so bold anywhere else, but this was his mother’s house, and by extension his own, so he could be as bold as he liked.
He shot Christian a disdainful look before offering the slightest of nods. Then he turned back to Thalia.
“Lady Thalia,” he said with a deep bow, “you look fine this evening. Have you a partner for the upcoming dance? I believe the dancing will take place on that neat little patio.”
Thalia blinked, eyes as wide as a cornered rabbit’s. “I… I haven’t a partner,” she managed.
Mr. Pembroke smirked. Catching Jonathan’s eye, he whipped a pencil out of his pocket, seized Thalia’s wrist, and scribbled his name on her dance card.
Christian breathed out, hands curling into tight fists. Every instinct urged him to lunge forward and peel Mr. Pembroke’s clammy fingers from around Thalia’s wrist with as much force as was necessary.
Unfortunately, there were rules, and breaking a man’s fingers in his own house over a perfectly reasonable dance invitation would be construed as breaking several of those rules.
The Marquess cleared his throat and jerked his chin at his sister. “Well then, Thalia, off you go. The dance is beginning.”
On cue, music blared. A handful of musicians sat on a disconnected patio, only a few feet away from the larger one. They were playing some jaunty jig, something that promised to be very energetic.
Mr. Pembroke reached out his hand. Thalia was obliged to put hers in it, before she was led away.
That left the three of them standing awkwardly together. The Marquess glanced up at Christian and sighed, almost irritated. Then he strode off, towing his stepmother behind him.
Lady Hawton held back just for a moment.
“I’m afraid you missed your chance, dear,” she sighed before she was tugged away.
Christian stood there for a moment or two, watching the dance begin. Mr. Pembroke, slow and ponderous, always seemed to be two steps behind. Thalia moved nervously, almost jerkily, and glanced frequently around as if looking for something or someone.
A figure appeared at his elbow, and Christian glanced over to find Daphne standing beside him. She mutely pushed a glass of whiskey into his hand.
“I thought you might need this,” she remarked, casting a thoughtful look at him. “You look a little annoyed, I must say.”
“I feel annoyed.”
“You ought to have asked Thalia to dance.”
“That is not… She does not care to dance, nor do I.”
Daphne huffed, taking a long sip of her drink. “It is not about dancing, you silly man.”
“Oh no? Then what is it about?”
“Well, if you can’t work it out, then I shan’t tell you. You are a clever man, Christian. Very clever.” She paused, glancing at his hand. “But you might want to release your grip on that glass. Any tighter, and I fear it might shatter into a thousand pieces.”
With an impish grin, she floated away into the candlelit gloom, leaving him to seethe alone.