Chapter 2 #2
The man is easily twenty years her elder, but he has lands, and a fine reputation. His age shows very little, a blessing of his Spanish heritage, perhaps.
“Forgive me, did I intrude?” Lord Pembroke spears me with a glance that feels very much like a dagger.
“Oh, no.” Lady Freya laughs airily. “I do believe His Lordship was just leaving.”
Before I can respond—or even compose a response to being so summarily dismissed—Lord Pembroke speaks on my behalf.
“He is ‘His Grace’ now, did you not hear? You gaze upon the newest Duke of Fairwynd.”
Except that she does not gaze upon me. Many a lady would have done so out of mere courtesy, their eyes growing sharper with this news. Lady Denham appears as bored as if she’s being forced to endure news of my horse giving birth.
“Indeed. Congratulations, Your Grace,” she murmurs, reading from the script nobility are taught since birth.
“I do believe you have my first dance, my lord?”
Lord Pembroke smiles, and even I find it hard to deny that he is a handsome man, elder or no. “You do me a great honor by remembering, my lady.”
The two of them bid me polite farewells, leaving me to watch while he leads her onto the dance floor.
“This is a most unexpected turn of events,” someone murmurs at my elbow.
I turn my head to see a gentleman who has approached without me realizing it.
He is masked, but I have known the crown prince far too long not to recognize the gentle, always amused timbre of his voice.
Then, of course, his long curls are unmistakable.
However, when His Highness attends a ball or social gathering wearing his black mask that covers nearly his entire face, everyone knows not to treat him as his royal birth demands.
“I did not know to expect you,” I reply wryly.
The Prince laughs softly. “This is your night, is it not, Your Grace? Your first ball since acquiring your new title—how could I miss it? I confess, I’ve been listening with great interest—I thought surely your engagement to Lady Denham would have been announced long before now.”
It is clear by the way his eyes dance that he thought no such thing.
“Then it occurred to me you would be waiting for this ball to confess your feelings for the lady, so I simply had to come.”
“How kind of you,” I remark.
“Quite. And yet, I did not hear you profess your love to Lady Denham just now. In fact, she looks quite taken with Lord Pembroke.”
I am well accustomed to the heir’s sense of humor and his tendency to poke fun at everyone around him. But he takes it too far. “Surely not,” I say, pretending composure I do not possess. A muscle tics along my jaw as I cannot help but find my gaze drawn to the pair.
Lady Freya looks enchanting in a silver gown that enhances her beauty—her every movement is pure grace. And even though it causes envy to flare in my breast, Lord Pembroke is quite the dashing figure next to her.
“I could speak to her on your behalf.”
This offer, and the absence of his usual jovial tone, catches my attention despite the lure of Lady Freya across the room. “Why would you trouble yourself on my behalf?”
“You are one of my truest friends,” His Highness replies simply. “I want to see you happy, though I confess to misgivings.”
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to relax before responding, “Please, enlighten me, sir.”
“For one thing, she is ruining your reckless, carefree disposition. I will not thank her for it.”
“And so?”
My friend regards me in silence for a moment, and when he speaks, his tone is more weighted than before. “If her heart belongs to another, you should forget your own feelings.”
It is all I can do to let him finish speaking before shaking my head. “She does not desire Pembroke. I am certain of it.”
“She smiled at him.”
“That does not mean—”
“Has it occurred to you, Greyonyx, that perhaps she desires no man? A lady can be a living jewel, and just as cold and cutting if you get too close. You would do well to consider that.”
My gaze has found her on the dance floor, and I watch as she performs the steps of a minuet. She is precise and graceful in every move and curtsey.
“Perhaps you are better at playing cards,” the Prince suggests, though his customary merrymaking tone takes out some of the sting. “Choose a woman—any woman. You have a title and looks pleasing enough to make a good life for yourself whoever you choose.”
“Is that what you intend to do, sir?” I ask, not once looking away from my lady as she dips and sways.
He groans good-naturedly. “When my parents finally force me to wed—and I feel that day swiftly approaches—that is precisely what I shall do. Better that than to be tormented by passion that is unrequited.”
I incline my head. “Perhaps so. And yet… I shall have to try. Until she is wed, the chase is not over.”
“Hmm. You must do as your heart bids you, I suppose. Thank Heaven my position means I cannot trouble with such things.”
“Thank Heaven,” I echo warily. “I hope Fortune allows me to be present when your time comes so that I may offer you such wisdom, should the need arise.”
The Prince laughs softly and claps my shoulder. “Stick to cards, Greyonyx. I fear you will be no better at wisdom than you are at professing love.” With that, he slips away.
I hardly notice. Despite the Prince’s mocking words, I have no such notions of a love-match. Desire for the Lady Freya is a pain that has long beat in my breast, and I must be free of it.
Lady Freya
“Another dance, my lady?”
“Oh, thank you, my lord, but I need a respite.” I clutch my breast dramatically, even though I am not in earnest. I love dancing. I do not love the idle gossip, the polite niceties that must be observed, or the hairstyles that make my head pound, but I would dance my slippers threadbare.
“We will have the last dance, then?” he inquires.
I force myself to smile and nod my agreement.
Then I bob a curtsey before hurrying to the balcony for much-desired fresh air.
As I slide outside, my skin instantly soothed by the cooling caress of evening, I exhale, trying to regain my composure.
I was beginning to feel far too hot in the ballroom.
Some of it was likely due to the focused attention of my dance partner.
Now that my father has agreed to our betrothal, the man seems intent upon talking me to death.
This is no easy feat, given that he and I have already exhausted our three topics of conversation—weather, what balls we will attend for the remainder of the season, and which foods we hope will be provided tonight.
He is far from being an unattractive man, but when I study him, taking in his dark eyes and tanned face, I feel… nothing.
Not nothing. I feel bored and vexed at being charged with his entertainment.
But I must resign myself. After all, this will be my life now—I shall be bored, but entertaining nonetheless. He is handsome, charming, and composed—all the things I have been taught to admire. I merely do not desire him, but that matters not. Ladies rarely know desire in their marriage.
“I thought I was the only one who sought solace out here.”
I jerk around to see a man leaning against the column. The moonlight and the wall sconces flanking the doorway serve to illuminate his figure. I gasp and press my hand to my rapidly beating heart before I recognize him to be Gregor, the new duke of Fairwynd.
“Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to frighten you.”
“I’m not frightened,” I return automatically, before I have even stopped to weigh my own words.
“Ah, merely startled then.” His lips curve into a smile that does odd things to me.
My heart, which should be settling now that I know there is nothing to fear, picks up speed like a horse commanded to canter. How strange. I glance over my shoulder at the tall paned doors. The music and gay chatter floats out toward me.
“I should go back inside—”
"Surely not. You have only just arrived.”
Heat surges to my cheeks. He is right, of course, and I am horrified to realize what a ninny I sound like. But I cannot help it. I’ve retreated here to find solitude and repose, yet somehow, despite the breeze of the early evening, the air has become stifling.
“You look as though you need the fresh air,” he observes, his dark eyes assessing me so that the heat of his regard moves across my skin like a caress.
I have never felt anything like it, and a shiver steals over me.
“I can leave, if you so desire.”
“Nonsense! The balcony is big enough for the two of us,” I murmur, but the words are merely rote. It would be better for me if he left, yet I cannot find the courage to say so.
“Very well then. Were you enjoying yourself, my lady? You make quite the study in elegance as you dance.”
I have heard such things long before I could understand their meaning. Lord Greyonyx—ahem, His Grace of Fairwynd, apparently—is merely being polite, reading from the same script we have all been forced to memorize. Yet, my pulse begins a steady skip despite what my head knows to be true.
‘Tis no cause for alarm. He has a pleasing face, a nice smile. Nothing more.
To my horror, I realize I have left him waiting for an answer, but I find myself incapable of recalling what we have even been speaking about. “Thank you, my lord.”
Instead of looking satisfied, he takes a step toward me, his eyes fastened upon me as though he can peer past the fabric of my dress and corset and see into my very soul.
I find it most unsettling. My mouth dries, and my stomach spasms. “I really should return,” I somehow manage to say between barely moving lips. “Lord Pembroke shall—”
“Let Lord Pembroke find another way to amuse himself for a time, hmm?”
He is standing too close, the two of us out of sight, and me without a chaperone. My mother will be horrified.
A very large part of me is horrified, and yet, I cannot seem to force my feet to move. He stands aside, the perfect picture of gentlemanly elegance—his wide shoulders filling out his jacket, tapered down his strong chest…