Chapter 2
The world didn’t seem to agree on much. Really, on anything at all.
Except when it came to two members of the peerage.
People of all ages and ranks concurred—the Duke of Argyll was a specimen of masculine perfection to be adored.
And Daria?
Daria was an oddity, not even worth remarking on.
But on the edge of yet another ballroom—a very familiar place for her—she came to think them strange.
How else to account for the blatant admiration, awe, and fascination shown the Duke of Argyll?
Handsome as a marble bust of David, he was also, with his affected air, as removed from humanity as the classical statue.
Tousled golden hair. A winning chin. Sharp, aquiline noise.
Muscled across the broad expanse of his back and strapping shoulders…
when most men were soft and sported paunches or padding.
She could close her eyes and draw forth every dashing detail.
Not on account that Daria in any way admired him. To the contrary.
Rather it behooved her to know every last detail about the man who’d be her husband.
Alas, he had no idea of their entwined fates.
But Daria knew.
She’d seen the intersection of their paths.
Just as she’d seen her death. She knew she was next. Her end was near.
Being one of seven sisters of the cursed Kearsleys, she was destined to meet her demise in a tragic way.
The tragedy to precede her end included marriage to the duke.
From the corner of Lord and Lady Wessex’s overflowing ballroom, where all the wallflowers sat, Daria swept a searching gaze over the stately space for sign of him.
The burnished floors gleamed. The gilded crystal chandeliers and matched sconces throughout cast light more vibrant than a mid-afternoon sun.
He should be here.
Absolutely certain he’d be in attendance; she’d donned her best black evening gown. From the black satin slip overlayed with gauze net, to the black jet beaded chrysanthemum embroidery upon the material and satin lace hem, Daria’s seamstress outdid herself.
But then, having worked in close collaboration with Daria since she’d been a small girl saying goodbye to her papa, Madame Marguerite knew just how to design for Daria.
The lively strains of a country reel and the collective footsteps moving in time leant an almost frenzied panic to Daria’s mind.
Where was he? Her earlier vision of him came clearer than crystal.
Restless, she peered amongst the throng of guests scattered among the rectangular black-and-white checkered ballroom; gentlemen reclined against Italian marble columns in affected poses for the ladies whose affections—or attentions—they sought, while others swept their dance partners in the broad, sweeping circles of a waltz.
For Miss Daria Kearsley, possessing the vision, was both a blessing and curse. The latter came with being born to the big, loving, but doomed family of the Cursed Kearsleys.
“What is it?”
That dread-filled question came whispered from fellow wallflower and friend, Miss Emmy Caldecott.
As far as outward appearances and temperaments went, Daria and Emmy couldn’t be more different. Emmy was exquisitely lovely and light of personality, wit, and style. As for Daria? Dark in both coloring and wardrobe, sober, and not even distantly pretty, Daria deserved her wallflower status.
The force that joined Daria and Emmy proved the greatest unifier.
Death.
For Daria, the tragic passing of her father, who’d choked to death on an olive pit and never had a chance to see his youngest daughter born.
For Emmy, her eldest sister, poisoned and ultimately murdered by a monster of a relative.
They each saw things. Daria, visions of what was to come. And Emmy, spirits of the departed.
Emmy also happened to be the young lady the duke had set his sights upon for his bride and duchess.
An inconvenience, really.
For all three of them.
Emmy tugged at Daria’s arm. “Well? Is it him?”
“I cannot yet say,” Daria murmured. She’d seen him in her vision. She’d seen them. Daria and the unlikeliest gentleman to wed her of all ladies.
Emmy did a frantic search. “Do I have to hide yet?”
Daria concluded her search. “No. We would know.”
“That’s right,” Emmy muttered. “Because he invokes a crowd wherever he goes.”
She’d meant on account of her visions.
Emmy wasn’t near done venting her frustration and disdain. “Ladies and lords alike toss flowers in his wake wherever he goes, and let us never forget that golden light which follows wherever His Grace goes.”
Confounded, Daria searched overhead for said illumination. It appeared in her scrutiny she’d missed a detail about the gentleman.
Soft, warm fingers settled over Daria’s always colder ones. “Not an actual light, Daria,” Emmy said with a gentleness that didn’t find its way into the blunt Kearsley household. “It is a figure of speech.”
When Daria continued to stare, her friend elucidated. “You know, because the Duke of Argyll is the golden child of Polite Society. The darling desired by all. I was exaggerating to show how ridiculous it is how favored the blackguard is.”
“Oh. I understand.” Now.
Daria missed those nuances seemingly every other lady—certainly all her clever sisters—understood. From strangers to sisters, Emmy was the one person who didn’t mock—or in her sisters’ cases, tease—Daria about it.
The tips of her fingers and toes tingled. The sensation pulsed rhythmically until a numbness set in. Her flesh prickled like tiny pins were being pressed to those digits.
“He is here,” she whispered, feeling him before she saw him, before the halo her friend referred to fell above him.
“Let us hope n—” Emmy’s wishing was cut short by the deep thrum that rolled over the packed space. The matching hums of hundreds of guests heralding his arrival. “So much for hoping.”
Together, Daria and Emmy followed the Duke of Argyll’s grand entrance.
And what an entrance it was.
The duke descended the sweeping marble staircase as though it were his own; the crowd parted as he went.
The duke’s dark blue tailcoat, tailored to perfection, emphasized a pair of broad shoulders, held proudly back as he walked.
There was a purpose to his strides; his agile steps conveyed strength and confidence.
Why shouldn’t the gentleman be confident?
Ladies swooned, they actually swooned, under the charming grin he so casually bestowed on his way.
From the gold of his buttoned waistcoat to his dazzling even, white smile, everything about the Duke of Argyll glittered. That is what her friend meant earlier.
Emmy followed her thoughts. “There is the shining glow, lighting his way.”
“Yes.” This would be a problem.
A greater one than she’d properly considered, and the ramifications.
“Ouch.” Frowning, she looked at her friend. “Why did you pinch me?”
“I pinched you because I know what you’re thinking.”
“No one knows what I’m—”
“You’re thinking the duke will not marry you,” Emmy said, “but your vision does not fail you, Daria.”
No, it didn’t. There were times when the flash of glimpses she’d have of the future—hers or someone else’s—shifted in slight but meaningful ways. Though the details were never quite sorted until the time actually came, some variation of her seeing came to pass.
“I wish it would. I wish you were wrong about both, because you deserve far more than marrying a cold-hearted rake like Argyll and…and…” Emmy’s voice broke.
Daria shifted her focus from the duke’s grand entrance to her friend’s grief-filled eyes. “I’ve already told you—”
“I know.” Emmy dashed away several tears.
Where everyone thought Daria half-mad at her vision of that to come, Emmy believed. Emmy also didn’t wish to speak on anything but the here and now.
Mindful of her friend’s sorrow, Daria looped her arm through Emmy’s and leaned close. “So, what do we think of my odds at the White’s betting book?”
With both his partners and former partners married, the duke was next to fall. Everyone, even ladies without entry to any of the clubs, knew the increasing wagers placed.
Emmy quirked her lips in a droll smile. “Perhaps given the identity of your future husband, we’d be wise to make our bets at Forbidden Pleasures.”
“But you’re a Caldecott and family through your sister to the Duke of Craven. We’ll place a wager there too.”
They shared a smile, then went back to following the golden duke’s obvious path through the ballroom.
Confusion creased Daria’s brow.
For her part, she just couldn’t sort out Society’s obsession. Why did the gentlemen envy him so? Why did the ladies swoon when he came near? Why when everything about the Duke of Argyll, from his movements to his mannerisms to the occasional winks he flashed, came practiced as a Dibdin number?
No, Daria was the sole person immune to the Duke of Argyll’s charm.
That would be her and Emmy.
Just then, Lady Harriet Darlington, the Season’s Diamond and the girl’s bold mama, stepped into the duke’s path.
The insouciant Duke of Argyll stopped before the magnificent pair.
A fresh murmur rippled through the ballroom in anticipation of his reception.
“Does anyone here truly believe he’ll respond with anything but his usual urbanity?” Daria muttered.
“He would not know how.”
No, he wouldn’t. What a tedious way to go through life—smiling for everyone’s benefit. Never free to express a genuine emotion.
As the others spoke, Daria considered the fair young lady.
Perhaps it was not solely the duke’s practiced charm that had claimed his attention.
Lady Harriet’s face and figure recommended her readily enough.
With flaxen curls arranged like a golden coronet about her head and sky-blue eyes glowing clear across the ballroom, the young woman appeared hand-carved by the gods as a match for the duke.
Daria could not have been more of a foil to such exquisiteness.
Fate was amusing that way. For all the contrast between Daria and the Diamond, it was Daria who was destined to become his wife.
As His Grace bowed, he gathered the lady’s long, delicate fingers and raised them to his mouth. The guests—Daria and Emmy excluded, of course—released a collective sigh.
“You are beautiful, Daria,” Emmy murmured at her side.
“I know how I appear to the world,” Daria replied without inflection. She was nothing if not logical. “My beauty—or lack thereof—is irrelevant to my coming union with the duke.”
London’s most coveted bachelor signed his name upon the young woman’s dance card.
Daria glanced at her own, entirely empty, save for one exception. Lord Landon, former rake and now devoted husband to Daria’s eldest sister, Anwen.
She picked up her pencil and crossed out her brother-in-law’s name. Despite the charmer’s insistence that he would partner her in a set; she remained just as adamant he would not.
Daria did not dance. All the twirling and spinning and obligatory hand-holding—she saw no point in it. With everyone’s futures predetermined, the courtship game in and of itself was irrelevant.
Her friend’s frantic whisper cut across her thoughts. “Daria, he is coming.”
“Not yet.” Daria glanced toward the far side of the room. Her appointment with the Duke of Argyll was still moments away. She was not yet ready to relinquish her friend. “We have time before he reaches you.”
They both did. It required no special acuity on Daria’s part to anticipate the gentleman’s next movements. Not when he was so tediously predictable.
His Grace stopped to greet his friends, Lord and Lady Rutherford. A crimson-clad servant approached, gold epaulets gleaming upon his sleeves, bearing a tray. Both gentlemen accepted crystal flutes.
“The duke’s friends suit him,” Daria observed.
“How do you figure?” Emmy regarded the group with open skepticism.
As Argyll and DuMond conversed, they sipped their costly French bubbles.
“DuMond and Argyll, certainly. Cut from the same cloth. But Lady Faith?” She huffed softly.
“With her charity work and earnest heart, with either of them?” Disdain sharpened her tone. “It is a mismatch.”
“They are precisely the sort of people Argyll keeps company with,” Daria said. “Beautiful. Worldly. Interesting.”
“You are interesting.” Emmy did not look at her. “Argyll and DuMond? They are soulless, ruthless blackguards.”
She spoke with the ferocity only a loyal friend could.
“I am not the same sort of interest—” Daria broke off. Without blinking, she kept her gaze trained on the trio. “It is time.”
Emmy rose at once. Then hesitation crept in. “It feels a betrayal, letting you be bound to him for the rest of your life. You deserve more.”
And you want more…
A treacherous voice rose at the back of her head. It needled her with that absurdity.
“He is looking,” Daria said quietly. “If you do not go now, you will not be able to leave at all. Not without drawing the attention of the entire ballroom.”
Emmy followed Daria’s gaze.
Indeed, the duke’s attention had shifted. He’d become the predator on the hunt for his prey. Calculating. Determined.
Casting Daria a look equal parts pleading and despairing, Emmy fled.
As anticipated, Argyll abandoned his half-empty flute on a nearby column. He murmured a final word to his friends, bestowed upon Lady Faith a courteous bow and a kiss to her hand, and then turned away, already in pursuit.
Daria waited.
One beat. Two.
Only when he had gone did she rise.
Careful now, she timed her movements to perfection.
And then Daria followed the Duke of Argyll.
Her future husband.