Chapter 10
Ten
"Looking for anyone in particular?" August's voice held a note of amusement that made Dominic's shoulders tighten. He had not realized his gaze had lingered on the drawing room door for quite so long, or that his friend had been watching him with such careful attention.
Dominic turned, arranging his features into an expression of bland disinterest that belied the inexplicable tension coiling within him—a tension that had everything to do with a certain sharp-tongued lady who had yet to grace the gathering with her presence.
"Who could I possibly be looking for?" Dominic replied, his tone deliberately careless. He withdrew his pocket watch and made a show of checking the time. "I am merely wondering how soon before dinner is announced. I am famished."
August's laugh was short and knowing. "Of course you are. And I suppose your appetite has nothing to do with a certain lady with amber eyes and opinions sharp enough to cut glass?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Dominic said, snapping his watch closed with more force than necessary. "The hunting party this morning was vigorous. One develops an appetite."
"Indeed. Though I notice you haven't stopped watching that door since we entered." August took a sip of his wine, his eyes dancing with mischief over the rim. "Curious, that."
Dominic scowled. "If you're so desperate for conversation, perhaps you should join Lady Worthington. She appears to be holding court by the pianoforte, and I'm certain she'd welcome your insights on whatever trivial matter currently occupies her attention."
"And miss the spectacle of the Duke of Ice melting? I think not." August clapped him on the shoulder. "Come now, admit it. You're wondering where my sister is."
"I am wondering," Dominic said deliberately, "when we shall eat."
As if summoned by his complaint, a butler appeared at the drawing room entrance and announced dinner with the solemnity of a man proclaiming the Second Coming.
The assembled guests began to move in a choreographed shuffle toward the dining room, ladies seeking gentlemen of appropriate rank to escort them, gentlemen bracing themselves for the gauntlet of hopeful mamas and their daughters.
Dominic scanned the room one final time, telling himself he was merely taking stock of the company. But June was not among them. The realization brought a curious hollow sensation to his chest.
Where is she?
"Your disappointment is showing," August murmured. "Shall I inquire after her whereabouts? Perhaps she has a headache. Or perhaps she's avoiding someone." His meaningful look was about as subtle as a cannon.
"Don't be absurd," Dominic muttered. "I'm merely surprised your mother would permit her to miss a social obligation."
Before August could respond, a rustle of expensive silk and the cloying scent of violets announced the approach of a woman Dominic recognized as the Marchioness of Linton.
She bore down upon them with the determination of a naval frigate, towing in her wake a slender girl whose expression suggested she was being led to execution rather than dinner.
"Your Grace!" The marchioness's voice carried across the room with such volume that several nearby conversations stuttered to a halt.
"What a fortunate encounter! May I present my daughter, Lady Annabelle?
She is quite the accomplished musician—plays the pianoforte like an angel, doesn't she, Annabelle? "
Lady Annabelle, a pale slip of a girl with limp blonde curls and a complexion that suggested she'd never been exposed to direct sunlight, managed a curtsy so deep Dominic feared she might topple forward.
"Your Grace," she whispered, her voice as insubstantial as mist.
"Lady Annabelle," Dominic inclined his head, already calculating his escape route.
The marchioness, however, was not a woman to be deterred by mere politeness.
"I was just saying to my dear friend Lady Wexham—you know Lady Wexham, of course—that it is such a delight to see young people mingling at these country gatherings.
So much more... intimate than a London ballroom, don't you agree? "
Dominic made a noncommittal sound that the marchioness apparently interpreted as enthusiastic agreement.
"Precisely! And speaking of intimacy, I wonder if you might do us the honor of escorting Annabelle to dinner? She was just remarking on how much she admires your... your..."
"My what, precisely?" Dominic asked when the marchioness faltered.
"Your horses!" Lady Annabelle supplied, her voice rising an octave in panic. "I admire your horses, Your Grace."
August, the traitor, snorted into his wine glass.
Dominic found himself trapped in the web of social expectation. To refuse would be unconscionably rude. To accept meant enduring what promised to be an excruciating meal.
At least if June were here, I might have been spared this particular torture.
"It would be my pleasure," he said, offering his arm to Lady Annabelle with all the enthusiasm of a man volunteering for the gallows.
The marchioness beamed with triumph. "How delightful! Annabelle, remember what we discussed about maintaining pleasant conversation."
Lady Annabelle's face flushed crimson, and Dominic felt a twinge of pity for the girl. It was not her fault she had a mother who viewed her as merchandise to be marketed to the highest bidder.
As they moved toward the dining room, Dominic glanced back at August, only to find his friend similarly ambushed by a matron with not one but two daughters in tow.
August caught his eye and mouthed what appeared to be a plea for rescue.
Dominic smirked and deliberately turned away. Misery, after all, deserved company.
The dining room of Stone's country estate was a marvel of Georgian elegance, with high ceilings, cream-colored walls adorned with gilt-framed landscapes, and a table that could comfortably seat thirty.
Tonight, with twenty-four guests in attendance, the gathering was intimate by country house standards.
Dominic led Lady Annabelle to their assigned seats, noting with resignation that they were positioned far from April and May—and, by extension, far from where June would have sat had she deigned to appear.
Instead, he found himself between Lady Annabelle and an elderly dowager whose elaborate turban threatened to topple into the soup with each slight movement of her head.
"I understand you have recently returned from the Continent, Your Grace," Lady Annabelle ventured as the first course was served.
"Yes," Dominic replied, hoping his brevity might discourage further conversation.
It did not.
"How thrilling that must have been! Was Paris very fine?
I hear the fashions are quite extraordinary, though Mama says English muslins are superior in every respect.
Did you attend many balls? I adore dancing, though Mama says my enthusiasm must be tempered by grace, and grace is best demonstrated through restraint, which is why I must never accept more than two dances with the same gentleman, unless, of course, he is of suitable rank and fortune, in which case three dances might be permissible, but only if Mama approves of his character and connections. "
Lady Annabelle delivered this speech in one continuous breath, then blinked at him expectantly.
"Paris was... adequate," Dominic managed, searching desperately for a change of subject. "The museums were quite impressive."
"Oh! Museums!" Lady Annabelle seized on this with the desperation of a drowning woman clutching at flotsam.
"I adore museums! Well, I have never actually visited one, as Mama says they are full of dust and foreigners, but I am certain I would adore them if given the opportunity.
Do they have many dresses on display? Or jewels?
I am particularly fond of diamonds, though pearls are more suitable for unmarried ladies, according to Lady Jersey. "
Dominic took a fortifying sip of wine. "The Louvre houses primarily paintings and sculptures. The Venus de Milo, for instance—"
"Venus!" Lady Annabelle's eyes widened in alarm. "Is that not terribly improper? Mama says classical sculptures are not suitable for unmarried ladies to discuss."
"I was merely—"
"Did you attend the Pemberton's ball before you left London?
Everyone says it was the event of the Season.
Miss Harrington wore the most scandalous dress—cut nearly to her waist, if Lady Cowper is to be believed, which Mama says she is not, as Lady Cowper has been known to exaggerate.
Still, it caused quite the sensation. And then there was the matter of Lord Whitby's new curricle, which overturned in Hyde Park and sent Lady Whitby's lap dog flying into the Serpentine!
Can you imagine? The poor creature had to be fished out by a passing sailor, and emerged so bedraggled that Lady Manville's abigail mistook it for a rat and struck it with a broom! "
Dominic felt his mind begin to numb. Lady Annabelle continued without pause, recounting what appeared to be every piece of gossip from the past Season, none of which interested him in the slightest. He found himself mechanically consuming his soup while his thoughts drifted to another conversation, in another room, with another woman entirely.
June would never waste his time with vapid gossip.
She would challenge him, contradict him, force him to defend his positions with actual thought rather than social platitudes.
Their conversations were battles of wits, each one leaving him both exhausted and strangely invigorated.
When June spoke of books or ideas or even the mundane details of country life, she invested each topic with a fierce intelligence that demanded equal engagement.
She would have something cutting to say about classical sculpture, he thought with a reluctant smile. Probably something about how the Greeks idealized the male form while constraining the role of women in their society.