Chapter Four #3
It was just us attending the ball, as Papa was traveling once more to the Far East on an urgent diplomatic visit.
It was a rare thing to see my father at home, and even those times were in passing.
He was a stickler for duty and took his ducal obligations very seriously, which was probably why he was now questioning how his daughter remained an unwed spinster after three seasons.
Securing my future was also his responsibility, after all.
The ride to the Duchess of Harbridge’s residence was quick, considering we lived only a few streets apart in the very desirable Mayfair district of London.
Exhaling, I closed my eyes and settled into my recognizable Lady Rosalin persona—the endearingly sweet, marriage-obsessed, and delightful version of myself everyone in our circles knew.
Being viewed as the girl who desperately wanted a husband had a twofold advantage: one, it made some gentlemen avoid me like the plague—huzzah!—and two, no one questioned why I was so picky if I appeared to covet them all.
I reconciled myself to the prospect of joining the latest crop of wallflowers lingering on the periphery and counting the minutes until Mama decided it was time to return home.
She would expect me to take a turn about the ballroom and be seen, so I couldn’t hide the entire time, but I was quite adept at being invisible when I wanted to be.
Perhaps Blake would be in attendance. He was typically a dependable diversion, though he didn’t always show up to these events.
I wished that I’d brought Opticks, though the brick of a thing would not fit inside my reticule.
Suddenly, a brilliant thought occurred to me: Might His Grace have a copy in his library?
I knew from Zia that her father was very well read and prided himself on the quality of his collection.
I could slip away easily by way of the retiring room.
I brightened at that idea, the prospect of the evening suddenly seeming less tedious.
We were announced by the majordomo and greeted by the Duke and Duchess of Harbridge.
On the way down the staircase, I could see Ela and Keston dancing a set, and I waved as Mama and I made our way through the crowd.
Dutifully, I nodded, smiled, and curtseyed when other introductions were made, attempting to be at my most charming so my mother would not find fault and keep an even closer eye on me.
Half the battle was appearing as though I were thrilled to be here—a willing tribute up for offer on the marriage mart with a dowry that made most gentlemen salivate.
Though as I caught sight of the infantile Duke of Renton sticking his entire index finger up his nose and then studying the contents therein with great fascination, bile climbed into my throat.
He lifted said finger to his mouth, and I spun around with a revolted gasp.
Gag times infinity.
Nonetheless, I forced myself to smile so much that my cheeks ached and even sportingly penciled in a handful of dances on my dance card, which pleased my mother to no end.
Zia used to make up names on hers, but Mama would see right through that ploy.
She knew everyone. While she was preoccupied with greeting a countess, I took the chance to make my escape to a quiet corner of the ballroom.
When the handsome redheaded rogue Lord Blake Castleton strolled into the room and veered toward me with a smile from ear to ear, the first genuine grin of the evening touched my face. “Lord Blake,” I greeted him. “I’m delighted to see you here.”
He took my gloved hand and bowed over it. “Lady Rosalin, you are a vision in…er…tangerine.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s yellow, and the fruit you’re thinking of is a pineapple. Don’t worry, I’m distressingly aware of the catastrophic resemblance.”
“Well, a girl as beautiful as you would make a burlap sack look like Parisian fashion,” he said loyally, and I warmed at the compliment. He was a dear friend, and one I was very thankful for. “Did you save me a dance?” he asked.
“You’re welcome to the rest of my dratted dances,” I muttered, unable to keep the bitterness from my tongue.
His lip quirked. “That bad?”
“You know I loathe the season with a passion. I’d rather be at home reading about mathematics and calculating planetary trajectories than waiting for an invitation to dance and simpering up at some dimwitted fellow who is only interested in whether my coffers are plentiful and if my hips are suitable for childbirth. ”
Blake laughed. “What kind of eccentric loves mathematics over a ball? You’re a strange girl.”
“You act like this is news.” I let out an amused huff.
Blake was one of the very few people who knew the real me, and I suspected that I was one of the few who ever got to see the real him.
He was silly and jovial with everyone else, but yet, we could have intense conversations about philosophers like Immanuel Kant and the impact of moral law for hours on end.
In hindsight, perhaps I had been unfair in opining that only girls had unrealistic expectations to bear.
Much like me, Blake was a walking contradiction.
Grinning, he held out a hand as the introductory strains of music for a quadrille started, and he sketched a bow. “Come on, then, my lady. Dance and simper with me, and let’s make everyone green with envy, shall we?”