Chapter 12
Nearly one month into her stay in London, and nothing had changed, Sybil thought grimly as she surveyed the bustling ballroom that was the result of weeks of planning and preparations with her mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and mother’s help.
It was what anyone would deem a rousing success, a crush by society’s standards, as the dowager had gleefully informed her earlier.
The flowers were fresh and glorious. The musicians were unparalleled in their skill.
The chandeliers were glowing. The champagne was being merrily passed around.
Anyone in her slippers would have been well pleased.
She was the Duchess of Riverdale. Diamonds twinkled at her throat and ears. She was wearing a gown of pink and purple silk that hugged her figure perfectly. Scarcely anyone had declined an invitation to her ball, making it one of the most sought-after fêtes of the season.
But the champagne in her glass was tasteless on her tongue.
Whirling about the dance floor with a number of gallant gentlemen, including her husband’s own dear friend, the Duke of Whitby, had failed to thrill her.
Oh, her partners had been graceful and polite.
Some of them, like Whitby, had even been droll and delightful.
Still, they hadn’t been her husband.
Her husband, who could bring her to his knees with his lovemaking and then treat her like a stranger in the next breath as he had last night.
“When are your courses to come?” he had asked her coolly, as if he had not just shattered her world with his tender touch.
She had tried to tamp down her hurt at the blatant reminder that she felt far more than he did.
That she always had and likely always would.
That this marriage of theirs had one purpose only as far as her husband was concerned.
And that it should have a sole purpose where she was concerned as well.
She had tried, too, to recollect that after she completed her obligation, she would have a town house of her own and freedom to do as she chose.
But the notion had felt hollow by the grim glow of the firelight last night.
Sybil had thought, trying to recall when she had last had her courses. “I’m not certain. Two weeks ago, perhaps.”
“Then I will come to you again tomorrow evening. When they arrive, you will notify me.”
She had felt as if she were reporting to a stern governess instead of a married woman speaking to her husband.
For the last month, aside from the few days when she’d had her courses in the midst, he had invaded her bedroom every night.
Each night, he had pleasured her until she had been witless and breathless, awakening her body to sensual marvels she had never dreamed existed.
With every visit, he made her fall in love with him just a bit more.
And then, he inevitably took his leave of her. She scarcely saw him until the next night. Occasionally, he joined them for dinner. But mostly, he left, drifting through the town house like a ghost. Leaving her lonely and longing for him.
She only had herself to blame, she supposed.
She had known better than to allow him back into her heart.
To lower her defenses. To feel things for him.
But her heart and her mind had different ideas, and as for the rest of her…
well, that, too, had been wooed and won by her husband’s traveling hands, lips, and tongue.
“Your Grace, you are the loveliest woman in the room.”
The sudden drawl at her side took her by surprise. Sybil had been far too caught up in her own troubled musings to see the Duke of Kingham approach. He towered over her now, tall, handsome, and unfailingly fashionable in his evening attire.
A genuine smile curved her lips at the sight of him. “Why, thank you for the compliment. But I dare say there are many ladies who are lovelier gracing the ballroom this evening. You are a true gentleman to suggest otherwise on my behalf.”
He pressed a hand to his heart. “I can assure you, Duchess, that there is nothing gentlemanly about me in the slightest. I pride myself upon it.”
She chuckled. “Then perhaps you are just a silver-tongued devil.”
He grinned. “Or merely a speaker of undeniable truths. For I see no lady within these walls who can hold a candle to you.”
“It is good to see you again,” she said, “despite your propensity for shameless flattery that I don’t believe one whit.”
“You do believe it. Confess.”
“I confess to nothing.”
“And what should you be confessing, madam?” asked yet another familiar voice at her back.
With a start, she whirled to find the husband she had so recently been ruminating over had soundlessly joined them, apparently having no qualms about eavesdropping on their conversation.
She studied his angular jaw and sharp cheekbones, thinking he looked as if he had been carved from marble. In his elegant black suit and brilliant white necktie, he was even more debonair than he ordinarily was. So handsome he stole her breath.
It was only when she saw the haughty displeasure in the depths of his light eyes that she realized he disapproved of her speaking with Kingham. Too bad. It wasn’t as if he had been talking to her first.
Or at all, she thought grimly.
“Riverdale,” Kingham greeted her husband affably, answering on her behalf with a smooth ease for which she was endlessly grateful.
“You are looking slightly less unfashionable than you usually do this evening. Although I must question your choice of waistcoat yet again. Stripes aren’t becoming on a man of your build.
I cannot say the same for your wife, however.
Her Grace and I were talking about how she is the loveliest woman in attendance this evening.
I was pressing her to confess that she agrees when you approached. ”
Kingham should have been a statesman. If only she possessed a modicum of his talent for smoothly steering the conversation in a less dire direction.
It would have served her well over the last month.
It would seem that when she wasn’t in bed with Everett, she was somehow saying the wrong thing or otherwise vexing him.
He couldn’t be pleased.
His eyes narrowed on his friend now, and she was relieved not to be the bearer of his scrutiny. “Why are you at my wife’s side this evening? Haven’t you a widow to seduce?”
Kingham raised a brow. “Unhappy wives are equally rewarding. I haven’t made up my mind which I shall pursue just yet this evening.”
Sybil’s eyes went wide at the subtle intimation that Kingham intended to seduce her. She knew it wasn’t true. He had no interest in her. But she couldn’t help but to wonder what he was about. It wasn’t wise to poke at the lion in his cage. Surely Kingham knew that.
But the duke seemed unperturbed by the prospect that he was running the risk of infuriating his friend.
“If you don’t want a blackened eye, then I highly recommend relegating yourself to the seduction of widows, old chum,” Everett said lightly, but his words held an undercurrent of icy warning that Sybil didn’t miss.
“I was just telling His Grace how honored we are by his presence,” she intervened brightly, hoping to distract the two men, who were eyeing each other rather in the manner of two opponents about to fight a duel. “It has been lovely to have so many of your dear friends in attendance this evening.”
“Some of them dearer than others,” her husband drawled pointedly.
Kingham seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
He laughed. “Don’t worry, I shan’t tell Whitby that you like me more than you like him.”
“Quite the opposite, and more by the moment,” Everett said nonchalantly.
“I was just about to inquire with Her Grace concerning the next dance,” Kingham returned. “A woman so lovely is meant to be whirling across the parquet floor, not standing alone with the dowagers and the potted palms.”
Heat crept over her cheeks. Had she been that obviously forlorn? How embarrassing. She would have to work harder to disguise her emotions. Distract herself more completely.
“A dance would be lovely,” she told Kingham, grateful for the reprieve.
Perhaps a turn about the ballroom in the arms of a charming man would help to cure what ailed her. If not, it would certainly provide her with a few minutes of pleasant diversion. Heaven knew her own husband had no wish to dance with her.
“I’m afraid the duchess is already spoken for,” Everett interrupted, moving between them in proprietary fashion when she would have accepted Kingham’s proffered arm. “The next dance is mine.”
Kingham sketched a half bow to her. “Perhaps another dance then, Duchess.”
She longed to argue. At the moment, dancing with the duke felt as if it would be much safer than whirling about the dance floor in her husband’s arms. But the two men continued to stare at each other like a pair of pugnacious dogs about to battle over a prized scrap of meat.
Seeking to avoid conflict, she deferred to Everett’s claim, taking his arm instead.
“Until later,” Kingham said.
“Or never,” her husband muttered under his breath in quite uncharitable fashion.
Sybil didn’t think Kingham overheard, however, as he was already melting back into the crowd of revelers.
“You need not dance with me if you don’t wish it, you know,” she said as her husband guided her onto the gleaming parquet.
Beneath the blazing chandeliers, and with so many souls packed into the two-story ballroom, the heat was almost unbearable. She felt dizzied for a moment as she and Everett faced each other, assuming their positions for the next dance. She curtsied and he bowed.
Her husband was unsmiling, his expression unreadable. “What makes you think I don’t wish to dance with you?”
“I’ve scarcely seen you all evening, and you only demanded this dance so that the Duke of Kingham couldn’t have it.”