Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
The Langley Ball
The Langley ballroom was an exercise in excess—gilded mirrors, crystal chandeliers, and enough hothouse flowers to fuel one of Cosmos’s botanical raptures for a month.
Lady Langley had outdone herself, though I suspected the effort had less to do with hospitality and more with a pointed determination to outshine the Hartington ball from the previous week.
I stood near a column at the ballroom's edge, performing the sacred duty of an unmarried older sister: watching Chrissie dance.
She was magnificent. There was no other word for it.
In pale rose silk with seed pearls at her throat, her strawberry-blonde curls catching the candlelight, she moved through the figures of a waltz as though she had invented the dance herself.
Her partner—a young viscount whose name I had already forgotten—wore the dazed expression of a man who could not quite believe his good fortune.
"She is clearly enjoying herself," Claire, Lady Edmunds, observed from her vantage point beside me. She had positioned herself with the strategic precision of a general surveying a battlefield, her fan moving in languid arcs.
"Immensely."
Claire's gaze drifted across the room. "Sefton does not appear pleased."
I followed her eyes to where the gentleman in question watched Chrissie with an expression that mingled jealousy and no small measure of irritation.
"She has decided to widen her pool of admirers." Sefton had apparently begun demanding things Chrissie was not prepared to grant. Exclusivity chief among them.
“Admirable of her," Claire said. "Never allow a gentleman to think he owns you."
She was my dearest friend and, improbably, the woman who had developed a fascination with my brother Cosmos.
A childless widow with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind, she had taken one look at my botanically-obsessed, perpetually-distracted brother and decided he was the most interesting man in London.
I had yet to determine whether this reflected excellent judgment or temporary madness.
"Cosmos looks particularly well this evening, don't you think?
" Her gaze had drifted across the room to where my brother stood near the refreshments table, explaining something to Lord Ashby with the sort of animated gestures that suggested tropical flora were involved.
Lord Ashby wore the expression of a man who had asked the time and received a lecture on some obscure plant.
"It appears he is about to be abandoned by Lord Ashby."
"I should go rescue him." Claire smoothed her emerald gown. "Purely as an act of charity, you understand."
"Naturally," I murmured, watching her glide toward Cosmos with the focused intent of a hawk descending upon a particularly oblivious field mouse. Poor Cosmos. He would be blushing within thirty seconds. And enjoying every moment of it.
I turned my attention back to the dance floor, where the waltz was drawing to a close, and Chrissie was being led back to our corner by her partner. She arrived flushed and sparkling, the very picture of a young woman in her element.
"Rosie, isn't it wonderful? Lord Harrington says I am the finest dancer he has ever partnered. And did you see Lady Pennyworth's face when I arrived? She was positively green. Her modiste simply cannot compete with Madame Delacroix."
"You are lovely, dearest." I smoothed a curl that had escaped its arrangement. "Do try to leave some of the gentlemen for the other young ladies."
Chrissie laughed, entirely unrepentant. "I can hardly help it if they keep asking."
As if summoned by the remark, a fair-haired young man appeared at her elbow and offered a precise bow. "Lady Chrysanthemum, I believe the next dance is mine."
Chrissie glanced at the small card dangling from her wrist and beamed.
"Mr. Ellsworth! So it is." She placed her gloved hand on his arm and cast me a look of radiant triumph over her shoulder as he led her away—as though being claimed for a second dance were proof that the entire season had been arranged for her personal enjoyment.
It was at that moment that I felt the familiar awareness—a prickling along my skin, a shift in the room’s atmosphere—that preceded Steele’s arrival. I did not need to turn. I simply knew.
I turned anyway. The sight of him was never something I wished to deny myself.
He stood a few paces away, immaculate in black evening dress, the white streak in his dark hair catching the candlelight.
His gray eyes held mine with that intensity that made me feel as though we were the only two people in a room full of hundreds.
“Good evening, Lady Rosalynd.” His deep voice set my senses reeling.
“Your Grace.” I curtsied. “I wasn’t certain you would come.”
“I wasn’t certain either.” One corner of his mouth lifted—that rare, almost-smile. “But I found the prospect of an evening without your company unexpectedly bleak.”
Around us, the whispers began. They always did.
Lady Rosalynd and the Duke of Steele—again.
Matrons who had spent years throwing their daughters in his path watched with barely concealed resentment.
Young debutantes eyed me with a mixture of envy and curiosity.
I had grown accustomed to it, if not entirely comfortable.
“Tongues are already wagging,” I said.
“Then we might as well enjoy ourselves.” He offered his hand. “Dance with me.”
I let him lead me toward the floor as the orchestra struck up a new waltz. His hand settled at my waist—proper, correct, and yet the warmth of it burned through the layers of silk and corset like a brand.
Steele danced as he did everything—with a controlled precision that somehow managed to feel effortless. He guided me through the turns with a sureness that required no thought, leaving us both free to simply be.
“Chrissie is in her element,” he observed.
“She is the belle of the ball and determined that everyone should know it.” I smiled. “She comes by the confidence honestly. Our mother was the same.”
“And her older sister?”
“Her older sister is chaperoning, as duty demands. Though I confess the duty has become considerably more pleasant in the last few minutes.”
His fingers tightened fractionally at my waist. “Has it?”
“Don’t look smug. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I never look smug.”
“You are looking smug right now.”
“That is satisfaction,” he corrected. “An entirely different expression. One I reserve for specific occasions.”
I was still composing a suitable retort when the music swelled into its final refrain.
For a few precious bars, neither of us spoke.
His gray eyes held mine, and the ballroom—the glittering chandeliers, the watching matrons, the five hundred rules that governed how a lady might stand in a gentleman's arms—fell away until there was nothing but the music and the steady warmth of his hand at my waist.
Then the waltz ended, and Steele escorted me back to my column. We had scarcely settled when Chrissie appeared at my side, her color high and her eyes dangerously bright.
"Chrissie? What is it?" I asked.
"That man," she said, her voice low and trembling—not with tears, I realized, but with fury. "That insufferable, arrogant man."
"Which insufferable, arrogant man?" Steele inquired mildly. "There are a fair number of them here this evening."
Chrissie was in no mood for wit. "Lord Redmayne.
He was standing not ten feet from me with his mother, and she was urging him to ask me to dance.
Do you know what he said?" Her hands clenched at her sides.
"He said he had no interest in dancing with—and I quote—a frivolous young woman whose chief accomplishment appears to be twirling about a ballroom in an expensive dress. "
Oh, dear. "Chrissie—”
"His mother was mortified. As well she should be. And now, she’s practically dragging him toward us. Never mind he looks as though he'd rather face a firing squad." Chrissie's chin rose to an angle that promised bloodshed. "Good. Let him come."
I glanced across the room and found the pair in question making their way toward us.
I recognized the young man, though we had not been formally introduced.
Lord Redmayne had inherited the title recently—his father had passed away a year ago.
He had made a distinct impression on London society, though not the sort his mother would have wished.
Where other young lords eagerly entered the social fray, Redmayne treated it as a form of penance.
He was tall—nearly as tall as Steele—with dark brown hair worn slightly longer than fashion dictated and a strong, angular jaw that lent his face a certain severity.
Handsome, undeniably, in that brooding way that had the debutantes swooning.
But his dark eyes held an intelligence that was almost confrontational, as though he were silently daring the world to waste his time.
"Lord Redmayne," Steele murmured beside me, “assisted me with the worker safety bill I brought before the Lords committee last month. A sharper mind than most give him credit for. Serious. Not given to frivolity." A pause. "Which may explain the current situation."
Lady Redmayne arrived with the unstoppable force of a woman whose maternal ambitions would not be denied. Her son followed half a step behind, his jaw set, his expression that of a man who had been thoroughly reprimanded and was now being marched to his reckoning.
"Lady Rosalynd, Your Grace—what a pleasure.
" Lady Redmayne's smile was bright enough to power the chandeliers, though a faint desperation flickered beneath it.
"May I present my son, Lord Redmayne? Edward, you know the Duke of Steele.
This is Lady Rosalynd Rosehaven, and her sister, Lady Chrysanthemum. "
Redmayne bowed. To his credit, his manners were impeccable—which somehow made it worse. "Lady Rosalynd. Lady Chrysanthemum. Steele.” His gaze met Chrissie's and something flickered there—brief, involuntary—before he cleared his throat. "I wondered if you might do me the honor of—"
"How kind of you to ask, Lord Redmayne." Chrissie's voice was silk over steel.
"But I am already claimed for the next dance.
" She held his gaze with a smile that could have etched glass.
"And every other dance this evening, as it happens.
Perhaps you might find some other frivolous young lady willing to twirl about in an expensive dress for your amusement. "
The color that rose in Redmayne's face was extraordinary—a deep, scalding crimson that began at his collar and swept upward. His mouth opened. Nothing came out. For a man of such formidable intelligence, he appeared to have been struck entirely speechless.
Lady Redmayne looked as though she wished the parquet floor would open and swallow her whole.
At that precise moment—with the timing of divine providence—Lord Penworth materialized at Chrissie's elbow. "Lady Chrysanthemum, I believe this is our dance?"
"It most certainly is." Chrissie flashed him a brilliant smile, placed her hand on his arm, and swept past Redmayne without a backward glance, her spine straight as a blade, her chin at an angle that would have done a duchess proud.
Redmayne stood rooted to the spot, watching her go. “If you would excuse me.” Then he turned on his heel and retreated into the crowd with the stiff gait of a man who had just learned, in the most public fashion imaginable, that his words carried consequences.
Murmuring something apologetic, Lady Redmayne hurried after him.
"Well," Steele said. "That was bracing."
“She’ll recover,” I said. “Chrissie’s pride is formidable. But she won’t forget it. She may very well skewer that young man in the future. With words, not blades.”
“Yes,” Steele agreed. “I imagine she will.”
“Is he always like that?”
“Redmayne inherited his title earlier than he expected.” A pause.
“He is young and perhaps too serious for his own good. But there is something there—intelligence, principle, a dry humor that surfaces when he forgets to be grim.” His mouth quirked.
“The raw material of a man worth knowing, once he learns that the world contains things worth attending to beyond his own convictions.”
“You see potential in everyone,” I said.
"Not everyone." His gray eyes met mine, and something warm moved through them. "But occasionally, I am proven right."
I held his gaze a beat longer than was wise.
"Shall we find the refreshments?" Steele offered his arm once more.
As we turned, his gaze settled on the far side of the room, where Claire had stationed herself beside Cosmos and appeared to be hanging on his every word—which, knowing my brother, concerned the pollination habits of something tropical.
Cosmos, for his part, was smiling like a man who could not quite believe his good fortune.
"Is there something serious between those two," Steele asked, "or is Lady Edmunds merely enjoying the sport?"
"More than sport, I believe. She is genuinely taken with him,” I said, grateful for the solid warmth of him beside me. "But where it will lead, I honestly could not say."
"Cosmos could do worse."
"He could do considerably worse. Whether he realizes that is another matter entirely."
The orchestra began again. The evening continued. And Chrissie danced on, her smile bright as the sun, determined to outshine every last person in the room—especially the one who had dismissed her.