Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
“You must come, Joan,” Victoria had insisted. “The Duke specifically invited you. It would be rude to refuse.”
The evening of the Winter Solstice ball arrived far too quickly. Joan had spent the intervening days trying to convince Victoria that she shouldn’t attend, but her sister had been relentless.
“He invited everyone. It wasn’t a personal invitation.”
Victoria had simply raised one knowing eyebrow, and Joan had found herself unable to argue further.
Now she stood before the looking glass in their shared chamber, hardly recognizing her own reflection.
The dress that had been the gift from the Duke was the most beautiful thing Joan had ever seen, a deep crimson silk that seemed to shimmer in the lamplight, with delicate embroidery along the bodice and sleeves.
It fit her perfectly, as though it had been made specifically for her measurements.
She guessed he’d sent her the dress to wear to the ball.
How did he know? she wondered. How could he have guessed so precisely?
“You look stunning,” Victoria breathed, adjusting the final pin in Joan’s hair. “Absolutely stunning.”
Victoria herself wore a gown of pale blue that brought out the color of her eyes and made her look ethereal and lovely. For the first time in months, her sister looked truly happy, with roses in her cheeks and light in her eyes.
Peters drove them to the hall in the carriage, and as they descended, several children who had been waiting outside rushed over to greet them.
“Miss Sinclair! Miss Victoria! You came!”
“You look like a princess!” Imogen declared, staring at Joan’s red dress with open admiration.
“You both do,” Percival added shyly.
Victoria laughed and twirled, making her skirts swirl around her. “Shall we go in together?”
They entered the hall—and Joan had to suppress a gasp.
The space had been completely transformed.
Garlands of evergreen and holly draped from the rafters.
Candles flickered everywhere, their warm light reflecting off polished surfaces.
A small orchestra occupied the stage, playing soft music that filled the air with warmth and festivity.
Tables laden with food lined one wall, and the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread made Joan’s stomach rumble despite her nervousness.
But it was the people who truly caught her attention. The hall was packed with villagers dressed in their finest clothes, all talking and laughing with an ease that spoke of long-standing community bonds.
As Joan and Victoria made their entrance, conversations faltered. Heads turned. Eyes widened.
Joan felt her cheeks warm under the scrutiny, but she kept her chin high and her expression serene. Victoria squeezed her hand reassuringly.
Timothy Andersen was the first to approach, Percival in tow. “Miss Sinclair, Miss Sinclair. You both look lovely this evening.”
“Thank you, Mr. Andersen,” Joan replied warmly. “And thank you again for all your help with the school.”
Other parents began to approach: the physician, the vicar, the baker. One by one, they thanked Joan and Victoria for teaching their children, for giving them opportunities they’d never dreamed possible. Joan felt her throat tighten with emotion at their sincere gratitude.
She was speaking with Imogen’s father when the hall suddenly fell silent.
The Duke had arrived.
Joan turned toward the entrance and felt her breath catch. Laurence Whitby, Duke of Ashcroft, stood in the doorway dressed in evening clothes of black and silver that made him look every inch the powerful nobleman he was. The scars on his face only added to his commanding presence.
Beside him stood a tall, handsome man with warm brown eyes and an easy smile, she decided that must be Hugo, the Duke of Ravenvale.
And on the Duke’s of Ashcroft’s other side was a young woman of perhaps one-and-twenty, with golden hair and delicate features.
She wore a gown of pale pink that complemented her fair coloring, and she stood close enough to the Duke that their arms nearly touched.
That’s her, Joan thought, something cold settling in her stomach. That’s Octavia St. Vincent.
Everyone in the hall dropped into curtsies and bows. The Duke acknowledged them with a slight nod.
“Rise,” he said, his voice carrying easily through the space. “And enjoy the evening.”
Permission granted, conversations slowly resumed. But Joan noticed people still sneaking glances at their host, equal parts awed and intimidated by his presence.
A server passed by with a tray of wine glasses. Joan took one automatically, bringing it to her lips and drinking deeply.
Victoria looked at her in surprise. Joan never drank, she’d always claimed it made her head fuzzy and she preferred to keep her wits about her.
But tonight, Joan needed something to steady her nerves. She took another sip, the wine warming her from the inside.
Victoria didn’t ask questions, simply placed a comforting hand on Joan’s arm. Joan stroked her sister’s hand in reassurance, trying to project a calm she didn’t feel.
The Duke had moved into the crowd, the young woman—Octavia—still at his side.
They were speaking with a group of village elders, and Joan found she couldn’t look away from the picture they made together.
They looked matched. Suited to each other in a way that made Joan’s chest ache with something she refused to name as jealousy.
She was watching them when Octavia suddenly detached herself from the group and began making her way across the hall, directly toward Joan and Victoria.
Joan straightened, pasting on a polite smile as the young woman approached. But then Octavia’s foot caught on something, and she stumbled. The wine glass in her hand tipped precariously, spilling a few drops that landed dangerously close to Joan’s crimson skirts.
“Oh!” Octavia’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so terribly sorry! I’m so clumsy sometimes. I do hope I haven’t ruined your lovely dress!”
“It’s quite all right,” Joan assured her quickly. “No harm done.”
“You’re certain?” Octavia looked distressed. “I would feel awful if—”
“Truly, it’s fine,” Victoria added with a warm smile.
“Thank goodness. I would hate to make a terrible first impression.” She dipped into a graceful curtsy. “I’m Octavia St. Vincent. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced?”
“Joan Sinclair,” Joan replied, curtsying in return. “And this is my sister, Victoria.”
“Sinclair,” Octavia repeated thoughtfully. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in the village before. Are you new to the area?”
“Yes,” Victoria answered. “We only recently arrived.”
“How lovely!” Octavia’s smile was bright and seemingly genuine. “I do hope you’ll find the community welcoming. Everyone here is quite wonderful once you get to know them.”
She leaned in conspiratorially. “I should tell you—my brother Hugo is currently unattached. He’s the Duke of Ravenvale, you know. Terribly handsome and quite charming, if I do say so myself. And I’m engaged to be married soon, which means he’ll be all alone. I worry about him, truly I do.”
She gestured vaguely toward where Hugo stood speaking with the local physician. “Either of you would make an excellent match for him. He needs someone sensible and kind, and you both seem to fit that description perfectly.”
The air grew awkward. Joan’s mind raced. She’s engaged? But to whom? Is it Laurence?
Before Joan could formulate a response, two figures approached from behind Octavia—the Duke himself, with Hugo at his side.
Octavia immediately brightened and turned toward them. She moved to the Duke’s side, her hand reaching out to rest on his arm in a gesture that seemed both familiar and possessive.
“Laurence!” she said warmly. “I was just telling these two lovely ladies that they would make wonderful matches for Hugo.”
She gestured toward Joan and Victoria. “May I present Miss Joan Sinclair and Miss Victoria Sinclair? Ladies, this is the Duke of Ashcroft, and my brother, Hugo St. Vincent, Duke of Ravenvale.”
Hugo’s eyes swept over both sisters with obvious appreciation, and his smile was warm and genuine. “Miss Sinclair, Miss Victoria. You both look absolutely stunning this evening.”
“You’re too kind, Your Grace,” Joan murmured.
Hugo turned to Joan specifically, his expression openly admiring. “Would you do me the honor of a dance, Miss Sinclair?”
He extended his hand toward her.
“Oh, you must!” Octavia encouraged. “Hugo is an excellent dancer. You’ll have a wonderful time.”
Joan opened her mouth to accept—it would have been rude to refuse—but before she could speak, another hand appeared in her line of vision.
Larger than Hugo’s. Scarred across the knuckles.
“I believe,” the Duke said, his voice cutting through the moment with quiet authority, “that Miss Sinclair is promised to me for the first dance.”
His fingers closed around hers before Joan could respond. “I did personally invite her, after all. It would be remiss of me not to claim the first dance.”
He pulled her gently but firmly away from the group, toward the dance floor where other couples were already assembling.
Behind them, Joan heard Victoria’s delighted giggle, barely suppressed.
The Duke led her to the center of the floor with confident steps that belied his impaired vision.
His hand found her waist with unerring accuracy, and he guided her other hand to rest on his shoulder.
Then his arms encircled her properly, one hand settling at the small of her back, the other taking her free hand in his.
The music swelled, and he began to move, leading her through the steps of a waltz with fluid grace.
“Can you dance, Miss Sinclair?” he asked, his lips dangerously close to her ear.
She looked up at him, noting the way his eyes seemed to track her face even though she knew he couldn’t see her clearly. “Can you see?” she asked instead of answering.
“No.”
“Then isn’t it rather late to be asking if I can dance?”