Chapter 7
“I am so pleased you have finally come to your senses, Henry.”
The dowager duchess’s voice had that familiar note of satisfaction as she accepted her son’s hand, stepping carefully down from the carriage. The lamplights illuminated the grand facade of Lady Wentworth’s town residence, where a steady stream of guests were making their way inside.
Henry forced a polite smile. “Yes, Mother, I’m sure you are.”
She gave him a pointed look. “I only wish for you to meet someone suitable. It’s a good thing that you are finally willing to see reason.”
Henry suppressed a sigh. Willing wasn’t the word he would have chosen. “Shall we go in?”
Once inside the polished foyer, Lady Wentworth herself welcomed them, a vision in shimmering blue silk.
Henry bowed, exchanged the expected pleasantries, and his mother curtsied in turn.
As soon as they were ushered beyond a set of gilded doors, Henry’s mother wasted no time in drawing him close to speak more quietly.
“There are a few eligible young women I would like to introduce to you tonight,” she murmured, her eyes gleaming as they swept the room.
“Wonderful,” he replied dryly, surveying the ballroom for familiar faces. A swirl of color greeted them: ladies in vibrant gowns, men in fine tailcoats, the strains of a quartet echoing from a raised dais. The scent of candles and perfume filled the air.
Henry saw William Fitzgerald standing near the far windows with Charlotte at his side. They were in conversation with another man, who had a braying laugh that drifted above the noise.
Sir Roger Leonard.
Henry narrowed his eyes. Before he could walk over to greet them—and find out what Sir Roger was about—his mother tugged his sleeve.
“Henry, pay attention,” she whispered. “We must greet Mrs. Pembroke and her two daughters. They’re just over there, beneath the chandelier. There, you see them?”
He nodded, giving Charlotte’s distant figure one last glance. He frowned at the way Leonard leaned closer to her, practically dribbling into her bosom, but his mother was already propelling him onward. They reached a stately matron and two young women wearing interchangeable pastel gowns.
“Ah, Your Grace.” Mrs. Pembroke lit up, a rehearsed smile forming on her round face. She dipped a curtsy, and her daughters followed suit. “What a delight to see you.”
“I’d like to present my son,” the dowager duchess said, placing a hand on Henry’s arm. “The Duke of Arundel.”
Mrs. Pembroke’s excitement was palpable as she introduced her daughters—Miss Catherine, the older, and Miss Lucy, the younger.
Both curtsied, cheeks turning rosy as they met Henry’s gaze.
He greeted them politely, offering a slight bow of his head.
Clearly, this had been arranged by the two mothers.
He swallowed his annoyance, remembering William’s advice.
“It’s a pleasure,” Henry said, measuring his words carefully. “I trust you are enjoying the evening?”
The oldest—Catherine—clasped her hands. “Oh yes, Your Grace. The music is lovely and the company even more so.”
Her sister gave a nervous laugh. “It’s one of the finest balls of the season—or so everyone says.”
His mother, clearly satisfied with their demure manner, pressed forward. “My son has only just arrived, but I’m sure he would be honored to dance with you both, if you haven’t already promised yourselves for the evening, of course.”
Mrs. Pembroke’s eyes gleamed. “I’m sure my daughters would be delighted,” she said, nudging them forward ever so slightly.
Feeling rather like a thoroughbred up for auction, Henry offered his arm to Miss Catherine first. As they walked onto the floor to join the forming quadrille, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Charlotte’s green gown across the room.
She was with William still, but Roger Leonard lingered, grinning at something Charlotte said—or perhaps leering was a better word.
Henry clenched his jaw, then forced himself to focus on his dance partner.
“You look rather thoughtful,” Miss Catherine ventured as the music began. “Is the ball not to your liking?” Her voice was soft, timid.
“On the contrary,” he said, guiding her through the steps, “it’s quite splendid. Lady Wentworth has excelled herself.” He allowed a pause before adding, “Do you attend many of these events?”
She attempted a smile. “My mother ensures we rarely miss one. She says it’s important to be seen. But I do enjoy the music.”
“Ah. You play, perhaps?”
She nodded shyly. “I play the pianoforte, a little.”
Henry encouraged her to talk more about it, which seemed to ease her nerves. Still, through each turn and bow of the dance, he couldn’t help flicking his gaze around the ballroom. Where was Charlotte now? That green gown was nowhere in sight.
When the dance ended, Catherine curtsied again. “Thank you, Your Grace. It was… an honor.”
He bowed. “Likewise, Miss Pembroke.”
They parted, and almost immediately, Lady Pembroke ushered the younger daughter, Lucy, forward.
Another dance ensued, this time a country reel.
Lucy made light conversation—chattering about her new horse, her father’s country estate, the next ball.
Henry responded with gentle smiles and carefully placed remarks, though his mind kept drifting toward Charlotte.
It really would be a shame if such a pleasant young woman was forced into an alliance with that buffoon Leonard.
At last, he returned Lucy to Mrs. Pembroke’s side. The two sisters beamed with gratitude, and their mother looked fit to burst with pride. His own mother, standing nearby, gave Henry a subtle nod of approval.
“How lovely,” she murmured, looping her arm through his. “Now, let us not dawdle, there are others to greet.”
He swallowed a sigh. “Must we greet them all?”
She sent him a pointed look. “You agreed to this, my dear. Unless you have changed your mind already?”
“No, of course not,” he replied hastily. “Lead on.”
They strolled across the wide floor, his mother pausing here and there to exchange a word with acquaintances.
A sudden hush in their vicinity made Henry glance around, and that was when he spotted Genevieve Flynn—one of Charlotte and William’s family friends—standing alone near a marble pillar.
She caught the dowager duchess’s eye and offered a curtsy.
“Miss Flynn,” his mother greeted her. “How nice to see you this evening. Are you enjoying the ball?”
“Yes, Your Grace, very much,” Genevieve replied. Her gaze drifted to Henry, a flicker of nerves apparent in her expression. “Good evening, Your Grace.”
Henry bowed slightly. “Miss Flynn. Have you seen Lady Charlotte Fitzgerald tonight? I believe you’re friends, are you not?”
“We are,” Genevieve said, her face brightening momentarily. “Charlotte is… about somewhere. I saw her a short while ago.” A sly smile seemed to twitch at her lips. “Were you wishing to speak with her, Your Grace?”
His mother interrupted smoothly. “Miss Flynn, I was just about to suggest my son invite you to dance, if you’re free. I recall hearing you played the pianoforte beautifully at your last recital. It’s always lovely to see those with a musical ear on the floor.”
A slight pink tinged Genevieve’s cheeks. “I’d be delighted, of course, if His Grace has no objections.”
Henry forced a polite smile. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Flynn. Shall we?”
Her face lit with joy—or was it something else? Henry had the disconcerting feeling that all the women around him seemed to be party to machinations he knew nothing about.
Genevieve put her hand on his arm, and they stepped onto the dance floor. A waltz was just beginning, a dance that Henry particularly detested—except for when he danced it with Charlotte.
Once they’d taken their positions, Genevieve cleared her throat. “You must forgive me if I’m not as graceful as some of the ladies here. I’m a little out of practice.”
“Nonsense, Miss Flynn. You move quite well,” he hastened to assure her.
They revolved in silence for a moment, Henry turning them to avoid colliding with another couple.
“Charlotte mentioned you might be attending tonight. She seemed rather pleased to know you might be here,” she said.
“Did she indeed?”
“Oh, yes.” Genevieve’s skirts swished as they circled each other. “Charlotte looks lovely tonight, doesn’t she? That green gown she’s wearing is my absolute favorite of hers. It brings out her eyes so beautifully.”
Henry blinked, momentarily taken aback by the directness of her comment. “Yes… yes, it does suit her,” he said, his tone cautious. Why was Miss Flynn chattering so inanely about another woman’s dress? He wondered if she was quite well.
They completed the dance with minimal further exchange, though Genevieve managed to slip in one last remark about Charlotte’s “unfairly overlooked virtues.” By the time the waltz ended, and they parted with a bow and a curtsy, Henry felt quite worried about Charlotte.
Was her friend trying to tell him something, perhaps in an attempt to rescue her from Sir Roger?
He looked around again for Charlotte, deciding to ask her to dance. It would give them both a reprieve. But his mother swooped in the moment he stepped away from Genevieve.
“Come,” she said quietly, ushering him forward. “There’s someone else I wish you to meet.”
She maneuvered them toward a tall woman with delicate features who stood beside her daughter.
Or at least, Henry assumed it was her daughter.
The young lady couldn’t have looked more different from her mother, with unruly red curls and a curvy figure all but bursting out of her gown.
As they approached, his mother lowered her voice.
“Helena Steele,” she murmured, her tone edged with faint disapproval. “Her family isn’t precisely the connection we’d desire, being New Money, but still. She is reputed to have a certain musical genius, and I hear she’s closely acquainted with Lady Charlotte and her circle.”
Ah, another friend of Charlotte’s.