Chapter Six
It was easy to understand why Olivia’s sister-in-law did not like balls. For one thing, the noise. Inane chatter filled the ballroom, stifling the air as the ladies exclaimed over the cut of each other’s gowns. As to the gowns themselves, the cacophony of colors was enough to induce a megrim.
From her position, seated on the periphery of the company, Olivia leaned toward her sister-in-law and took her hand.
“Are you well, Eleanor? I can accompany you to the terrace if you need a little quiet. Or I could ask Montague to attend you.” She gestured toward her brother, who stood at the opposite end of the ballroom, deep in conversation with a group of young men.
“No, no, Olivia,” Eleanor replied, her voice betraying her discomfort. “I’ve no wish to leave you on your own. But I might take a turn about the terrace once you’ve secured a dance partner.”
In which case, Eleanor will be stuck here with me for the duration of the evening.
Olivia glanced about the company, unable to ignore the voice whispering in her mind—a voice to echo the whispers that had drifted across the ballroom as some of the less congenial members of the party had passed her by.
Natural child…
Bastard…
Each time she heard those words, she snapped her head round to see a group of young women who nodded and smiled before opening their fans to giggle and whisper behind them.
Olivia’s gaze fell upon Miss Aurora Young—or, as she’d been sharply reminded by the young woman herself, the Honorable Miss Aurora Young.
Arm in arm with Sir Heath Moss, she radiated the brittle beauty that spoke of years of breeding.
The awkward encounter earlier that evening when Lady Fairchild introduced them had resulted in Miss Young giving Olivia the cut direct before sauntering off with Miss Peacock, another young woman who wasn’t above pointing out Olivia’s many faults, with a sweet smile that belied the spite glittering in her eyes.
Bitches.
“That may be so, Olivia dear, but it’s best not to voice it.”
Olivia turned to her sister-in-law. “Forgive me, Eleanor. I didn’t mean to speak aloud.”
Eleanor patted her hand. “You’re worth a hundred of them, Olivia.”
“Not if you compare their dance cards to mine.”
“Then it’s the young men’s loss,” Eleanor said. “Imagine what a sufferance it must be to stand up with women such as Miss Young or Miss Peacock!”
Olivia eyed the couples lining up for the next dance. “None of them look like they’re suffering.”
“I assure you they are,” Eleanor said, with a grin.
“Society ladies are supposed to suffer—to endure the company of men such as Sir Heath Moss and restrict their conversation to conceal any unladylike displays of intelligence or emotion.” She lowered her voice to a whisper.
“That is, of course, assuming they’re in possession of intelligence or emotion.
Miss Young seems to have a little more wit than her friends, but I daresay the influence of Miss Peacock will obliterate all trace of human decency.
Why must titled ladies be so unpleasant? ”
Olivia managed a smile. “You have a title. Don’t they see you as one of them?”
Eleanor laughed. “My dear Olivia, I’ll never be one of them, for all that I’m a duchess.
My title is courtesy of marriage, not birth.
As the daughter of a man who had the vulgarity to acquire his fortune through trade, I’m not generally deemed acceptable in Society.
Besides, I lack the qualities expected of a Society lady. For one thing, I dislike company.”
“Which is perhaps why I prefer you to every other living soul,” Olivia said.
The murmur of conversation intensified, filling the air with harsh voices and soulless laughter. Eleanor began to pick at her bracelet before twirling it about in her hands.
“Would you do me the honor of partnering me for the next dance, Miss…?”
Olivia glanced up to see a young man bowing before her, hand extended—one of the men Montague had been speaking to earlier.
She stared at the newcomer. Handsome enough, though his reddened cheeks spoke of a little too much liking for Lord Fairchild’s champagne.
“F-forgive me, sir,” Olivia stammered. “We’ve not been properly introduced.”
He bowed and clicked his feet together. “Mr. Arnott, at your service. I’ve had the pleasure of being introduced to your brother the duke.
” He bowed to Eleanor. “Your Grace, I’d be honored to make your acquaintance.
The duke speaks very highly of you, and I now see that his praise of you is vastly underrated. ”
“Do you seek to flatter me, Mr. Arnott?” Eleanor said.
He colored, his artlessness not obliterated by age and experience, and Eleanor laughed.
“No matter,” she said. “You’re not the first young man to flatter a duchess, and I doubt you’ll be the last.”
“I-I’m not come here to flatter, Duchess,” he said. “I’m come to beg His Grace’s sister’s hand for this dance.”
Eleanor tilted her head to one side. “So, you’re here to flatter a duke’s sister?”
“Unashamedly so, Duchess.” He turned his gaze to Olivia. “Dear lady, with your chaperone’s permission and your consent, I’d be honored to partner you.”
His eyes sparkled with a hope that mirrored the hope rising in Olivia’s heart.
“Eleanor, may I?” she asked.
“Of course, Olivia. You’ve no need for my permission.”
Olivia rose and took the proffered hand. “Then it would be my pleasure, sir.”
His smile broadened and her heart fluttered at the expression in his eyes.
With perfectly proportioned features, a strong jaw, and a physique that, though slighter than her brother’s, possessed a degree of athleticism that filled out his jacket perfectly, he was one of the handsomest men in the room.
And he’d asked her to dance!
He led her to the dance floor, and Olivia smiled at the young women she passed who eyed him with curiosity and her, envy.
By the time the music began, Olivia had conquered most of her apprehension.
Though she’d practiced the steps many times at home under the guidance of a dance teacher Montague had employed, tonight was the first time she’d had the opportunity to perform this particular dance at a real ball, with a real man as opposed to Miss Revell.
She smiled to herself as she recalled her teacher’s words.
One, two, three, one, two, three, forward and back. One, two, three, one, two, three, look straight ahead. One, two, three, one, two, three—and turn!
“I beg your pardon?”
She glanced up from the floor. Curse it! She’d not been looking up—unable as she was to share Miss Revell’s confidence that she wouldn’t trip over her feet if she didn’t stare at the floor for the duration of the dance.
“Forgive me, Mr.…”
Heavens! What was his name again?
“Mr. Arnott,” he said, frowning in an expression of mock hurt. “Lady Olivia, am I so far below you in station that you’ve forgotten my name already?”
“Of course not,” Olivia said, “b-but my name is not…”
But at that moment, they were separated by the steps, and she found herself face to face with Sir Heath Moss. With a sneer, he held out his hand, and she took it, suppressing a shudder as he steered her about in time to the music.
“I say, Miss… What was it?” He shook his head. “Forgive me, I cannot recall your name. You seem extraordinarily accomplished on the dance floor, considering.”
“Considering what?” she said. “The skills of my partner?”
“Tut-tut, would you impugn Mr. Arnott’s talents?”
“I wasn’t referring to Mr. Arnott.”
“Of course,” he said, “when a woman has few offers at a ball, she must accept whichever young men are disposed to dance with her.”
“I’m not so desperate as to accept the most objectionable offers, Sir Heath,” she said. “But, of course, some dances require an exchange of partners—which can be most unfortunate, can it not?”
His eyes narrowed, and they continued in silence until she was reunited with Mr. Arnott.
“Are you enjoying the dance, Lady Olivia?” he asked.
Olivia caught Miss Young’s spiteful smile and felt her cheeks warming.
“Y-yes, very much,” she said. “A-at least, I am now.”
“I daresay you’ve had many dance partners this Season,” Mr. Arnott said.
“Not that many, sir.”
“Surely the sister of the Duke of Whitcombe will have had many offers. He’s a remarkable man.”
Olivia glanced about the ballroom in search of her brother, who was now sitting beside Eleanor, holding her hand.
“He’s the best of brothers,” she said. “He’s very kind to me, and he dotes on Eleanor—I adore her.”
“The duchess is a little…eccentric, is she not?”
Olivia tempered the flare of anger.
“Eleanor is the best of women,” she said. “She merely dislikes crowds and is discerning when it comes to the company she keeps—a sentiment I agree with.”
To his credit, he colored. “Forgive me. I meant no disrespect. I value eccentricity over conformity.”
“As does my brother,” Olivia said.
At that moment, as if he’d heard, Montague glanced up, and they exchanged a smile.
More than anything, she wanted him—her beloved brother who recognized her as his sister when many men of his station would not—to be proud of her.
Then she caught sight of a lone man standing in the corner of the room and her skin tightened in apprehension.
He was more beast than man, and his large, muscular frame strained against his closely fitted dark-blue jacket.
He seemed to be cast in a permanent shadow—not only the color of his hair, which was black as night, but the expression in his eyes, glittering darkly beneath a furrowed brow.
A footman approached him with a tray, and he waved the fellow away with scowl.
He was the antithesis of Olivia’s mild-mannered, good-tempered—not to mention good-looking—dance partner. It was a wonder he bothered to attend a ball if he was going to remain in the corner ready to snarl at anyone who dared approach.
In fact, men who were disinclined to dance ought to stay away from balls, for they only furthered the shame of the unfortunate women unable to secure dance partners.
But tonight, for once, I am not one of the unfortunates.
She turned a grateful smile toward Mr. Arnott. “Had you met my brother before tonight, sir?”
“No, Lady Olivia, but Lord Fairchild introduced us.”
Olivia cringed at his address. But how could she correct him in the middle of a dance?
“I knew I’d like him the moment we were introduced,” he added.
“Because he’s a duke?”
“Because he’s an Oxford man, like myself. Different college, though. I was at New College.”
“Oh?”
Olivia cursed herself. Doubtless she was expected to make some witty response to his declaration of having attended Oxford, but all she could muster was…oh.
“I always thought it amusing that New College was so named, given that it’s one of the oldest colleges. Of course, we weren’t at Oxford at the same time. I’ve only recently come down.”
“And what did you study?”
“History…or was it English? Perhaps both.”
“Don’t you know?”
“Of course,” he replied. “I’m only jesting.”
“An education at Oxford is to be envied,” Olivia said. “My brother is always saying how much he appreciated the experience. He’s sponsoring the education of a tenant’s son.”
“A tenant? Such as…a farmer?”
“You disapprove?”
“O-of course not,” he said, his forehead creasing into a frown.
“The boy’s currently at Eton,” Olivia said, “and my brother means for him to go to Oxford afterward. I used to teach him at the school in the village. Exceptionally clever, he is. I’m sure he’ll do very well.”
“You taught in a village school?”
“You disapprove of women having an occupation, Mr. Arnott?”
“I know ladies often bestow charity on the less fortunate,” he said, “but few children can boast of being taught by a titled lady.”
“Oh, I’m not…” Olivia began, but the dance came to a close and applause rippled through the company.
Mr. Arnott bowed over her hand then lifted it to his lips.
“I must thank you for your excellent company, Lady Olivia. Such unmatched pleasure that I am in pain now it has come to an end. I trust, in the interests of not furthering my pain, you’ll permit me to claim another dance.”
Ordinarily Olivia would have laughed at his affected gallantry, but after weeks of receiving snubs at every ball she attended, she allowed herself to enjoy a little flattery.
“I’d be delighted, sir.”
“Then I’ll come and claim you for the set after next.”
He brushed his lips against her hand again, then escorted her back to her seat beside Eleanor.
He bowed to Montague and took Eleanor’s hand.
Eleanor gave a slight frown and tilted her head to one side, unsmiling as he kissed her hand.
Then he clicked his heels together and returned to the dance floor.
“A gallant young pup,” Montague said. “Decent enough, but a little too quick to ingratiate himself. But I daresay that’s due to the inexperience of youth, which can make a man lose all sense when engaging in conversation with a beautiful young woman.
” He glanced at Olivia. “I take it you found his conversation pleasing?”
“Pleasing enough, brother,” she said. “When there are so few willing to engage in conversation with me, I must accept what there is.”
“You shouldn’t feel compelled to enjoy his company,” Eleanor said.
“You didn’t like Mr. Arnott?” Olivia asked.
“I’ll grant, there are worse men to spend an evening with. Besides, whether I like him is immaterial. It’s your opinion that matters. I rarely like anyone, but I’ll give Mr. Arnott credit for one thing.”
“Which is?”
“His eagerness for your company, dearest. That shows good judgment.”
Olivia smiled, a nugget of hope swelling in her heart. A young man, fresh from Oxford and eager to dance with her, was something to treasure. And, as Montague had said, she wasn’t in need of scores of young men eager for her hand.
She only needed one.
She glanced across the ballroom, and her eyes once more fell on the scowling giant in the corner. A shiver rippled through her as he shifted his gaze toward her.
Eleanor was right. There were worse men to spend an evening with.