Chapter 19
“How much longer, Carlyle?”
The servant shrugged.
“Your mother claimed she was ‘nearly’ ready, Your Grace. I would guess, from previous experience, that she’ll be prepared to leave in a little above an hour.”
Frederic sighed.
“That is relatively soon, I suppose, in relation to when the preparations began.”
Carlyle wisely did not respond. Frederic threw a resigned glance to the timepiece on the mantel. Why, in the name of all the foxes in the hunt, did it take so long for ladies to prepare themselves for a ball? His mind flashed back to his childhood when—
He closed his eyes. He remembered his mother preparing for other balls, it was true, but he also remembered his father, choleric and blowsy, pulling on a hat and hurrying out to the carriage, pursued by his wife’s tears. It didn’t do to dwell in the past.
“I’m—reminding myself and anyone who cares to listen,” he said, grumpily, “—that I did not want to attend this ball in the first place.”
Carlyle, in a truly magnanimous show of solidarity, bowed in agreement. He really was a good old sort, Frederic thought, amiably. He and Philip had adjusted well to having a lady around the house.
Up until this point, Frederic congratulated himself—except for that one night in the library—on having behaved with an exceptional level of decorum and civility. He and Caroline lived a most amiable and appropriate relationship, above board and amicable in admirable ways.
They maintained their relative social commitments and the visits due to their peers. He had been very pleased to see Caroline step into—or better said, stride forward towards—her new role as a duchess. She had done it—had done him—admirable credit.
Furthermore, they coordinated without a word of discontentment, even on matters of schedule when it came time to travel into London in the carriage. Both had been satisfied with friendly distance.
This ball—this ball, though—niggled at the edges of his consciousness. There was something about it—something that quickened his pulse and set his thoughts racing. But, no—it was just another social engagement, a formality, even—just another opportunity to see and be seen. And yet. And yet—
Soft steps behind him announced her arrival. At last! He nodded to Carlyle, who left to signal the carriage, straightened his waistcoat, and turned from the table.
“Now that you’re sufficiently prepared, I assume, madam—”
The words caught in his mouth. Caroline stepped forward. She was radiant—brighter than the stars in midwinter and more beautiful than any other woman he had ever seen.
“What a coincidence, Your Grace! Did you choose your vest to match my gown?”
Frederic looked down numbly. His vest—what did his vest matter? Oh—he saw what she meant now. He snapped his open mouth shut and cleared his throat.
“I did not.”
Carlyle, had he been anything but an old family servant, might have been accused of a certain levity, a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. Frederic straightened in his chair.
“Are you prepared to depart, Your Grace?”
“Nearly, sir. I’ll just fetch my reticule. Is Esther here already?”
His mother, ready at last in a hurried twenty minutes, descended to the carriage. Frederic handed them both in and called directions up to the coachmen. He sank back into his seat with a sigh. What a relief to be on the way.
He dragged his thoughts away from the woman sitting next to him—his wife. At least, it could be alleged that he tried valiantly. His mother, wrapped in a shawl, stared out the window. Frederic’s eyes trailed back to Caroline’s face.
He blushed like a schoolboy then raised his chin. And why shouldn’t he admire her? he asked himself. Why shouldn’t he trace the softness of her face, the curve of her dark hair with the appropriate pride of a husband?
His heart beat a little bit faster. Perhaps, he thought, surprised, he felt something—something more—something more than just appropriate pride. That was ridiculous. Their marriage had been a formality, a debt of honor.
She coughed, and his eyes flicked back to her face. The moon hadn’t yet risen, but the light from the carriage lantern fell like a blessing across her face.
She fidgeted and looked out the window. What could she be looking at? He squinted through the glass. Caroline sighed, and her hands brushed together, seeking the familiar comfort of caressing her scar.
He blinked. Of course! She was nervous—almost certainly. And why shouldn’t she be? What a fool he had been, thinking so much about—other things—and not paying attention to the moment at hand.
He caught her eye and raised his eyebrows questioningly. Her blush heightened her color admirably.
“It’s—I—” She sighed then leaned closer to him. The smell of lavender washed over him. He struggled to listen as she whispered. “Balls have never been friendly to me. Things are different now, but—”
She rubbed her gloved hand. Ah. It was the old concerns again—not unfounded, certainly, but unwarranted, nonetheless. Surely, it had been too long for baseless rumors to persist. He took her hand in his own.
“You’re a duchess now,” he whispered back. “The wave of superstition and hearsay that swept over you before will long since have subsided.”
His mother, trying very hard not to eavesdrop, shut her mouth primly. Frederic ignored her.
“I will be there to support you,” he said. “There are no comments you can fear now.”
Caroline smiled shyly, but the worry didn’t quite untangle her crinkled brow. Esther sighed, lost in her contemplation of the road.
“Your father would be so proud,” she said wistfully. “His son and daughter-in-law attending the last ball of the Season.”
Frederic’s jaw stiffened. His father. He hardly knew what the word even meant. Carlyle had extended more of a hand in his upbringing than Frederic’s own father of flesh and blood. Frederic bit back the retort and settled back into his seat.
From the moment they entered the ball, the whispers prodded them like flies after a carcass. The marquesses and earls bowed to their faces, but their hurried whispers chased after Frederic and Caroline long after they had passed.
“Oh, yes—married for six months, you know. After the scandal—”
“Beautiful young thing but cursed, surely—”
Frederic resisted the urge to confront the whispers directly, but if he could have deprived the entire room of the power of speech for the duration of the event, he may have been sorely tempted.
They took refuge on a tufted couch near the ballroom.
Frederic had fetched a fortifying ratafia which they sipped on slowly, savoring the sweet and simple fruity tang.
Caroline nodded civilly to Lady Whistleton and her daughter as they passed, who returned the favor before hurrying off to another group.
So many people and so little enjoyment. Frederic sighed.
“I must confess, Caroline—I also would much rather be at home. Were it not for my mother’s inclination, I would retire early and carry enough boredom back to Philip to stifle him through the summer.”
Caroline smiled and glanced at him shyly as a princess in a portrait sitting. A jolt of warmth shot through him. He shook his head a little and sipped a little more, gesturing to a passing servant for a fill from the decanter.
A sudden urge to take up her hand and kiss it filled his mind. He brushed it away. His feelings in the carriage had been heightened by—
He was doing service to a fellow person—yes, that was it. That was why accompanying her felt so comfortable and—well, exciting even. There was nothing more gratifying than serving his fellow man. Caroline’s back had straightened a little more, heightening his comparison to the princess.
“It does console me somewhat, Your Grace, that home is comforting for more than just myself.” A group of high-plumed ladies walked slowly by them, piercing them with pointed glances.
Caroline sighed. “Oscar and Philip, at least, are less intrusive in their questioning and more respectful in their silence.”
A look of determination settled on her face.
“But I am with you.” Her eyes traced the lines of his profile. Frederic’s breath caught in his throat. Was it warmer in the room than it had been a moment before?
Caroline continued, “I am your wife, at least, and that ought to give me some morsel of courage.”
She lifted her chin and turned back to the crowd, nodding to Lady Ethington as she passed by with the assurance of an admiral overseeing his fleet. He hadn’t realized—- Of course she put faith in him, but he hadn’t realized how much stock she put in his presence or opinion.
Frederic removed Caroline’s glove, raised the hand to his lips, and kissed it gently. Her eyes widened, and she trembled a little.
“I am also with you,” he said, sincerely, “and that makes me a fortunate man, indeed.”
A passing earl stared at them. Frederic glared at him. The earl had been one of the friends with his father—if such a base relationship could be so named between men who waste their lives away together.
Frederic raised his chin. At least, heaven knew, he had nothing to be ashamed of, and Caroline certainly didn’t. He stared, challenging his father’s former acquaintance with his eyes. The earl blinked then hurried forward to the card room.
Frederic curled his lip. Some men didn’t change.
Caroline’s hand brushed her face where the jagged scar cut across her jaw. Her face, just for that moment, reminded him of that night in the library. She had been so afraid—and so open. Frederic leaned forward and whispered in her ear. Soft curls brushed his face.
“Have you had any nightmares lately?”
Caroline opened her mouth to reply. Something rustled startlingly close behind them.
“Ah! My dear friend, the Duke of Blackmore!” Felicity Flounters swept a grand curtsey to Frederic. She nodded to Caroline. “And—Caroline! So good to see you again.”