Chapter 24
“Westvale! You have been absent from our company for far too long,” greeted the Duke of Bath.
Keaton smiled and inclined his head properly.
The ball was being hosted in a house on Pall Mall, being rented by the Baths for their sojourn in London.
It was crowded, if the babble of conversation and laughter were anything to go by.
Adding in the clink of glasses and the music from the string quintet, and Keaton was finding it difficult to pinpoint specific voices. It put him on edge.
“And allow me to welcome your wife to our company for the first time,” Bath guffawed.
“I thank you, Your Grace,” Georgia replied gracefully.
“Quite lovely, you lucky chap,” Bath murmured, pitching his voice to a whisper that only Keaton would hear.
He felt himself coloring at the notion that the Duke of Bath’s lecherous gaze was lingering on his wife.
But then he had expected it. He wondered if Georgia was scarlet at the attention.
Or if she was enjoying it. She kept a hand in the crook of his elbow, standing close enough that he could feel her bare arm against his.
He wanted to strip off his coat and shirt so that his skin would be against her own.
“Thank you for the compliment, Bath. The Duke was just remarking on your appearance, Georgia,” Keaton said for their small crowd.
The Duke of Bath harrumphed.
“It is quite remarkable,” the Duchess of Bath put in.
Keaton did not think she had been present at the start of the conversation, and now resisted the urge to swing his head around in search of the direction of her voice.
“I thought the occasion warranted a statement piece,” Georgia spoke in a telling smile, “I did not want to attend your first ball of the season in anything that could be termed ordinary.”
“You certainly avoided that,” the Duchess said.
“Perhaps you might share the name of the modiste that my wife might have something similar made,” the Duke added, amused.
Keaton knew that the Duke and Duchess were older by some ten years than either himself or Georgia.
The Duke was laughing, but Keaton detected the sniff of disapproval from his wife.
They moved on, continuing to mingle and barely getting a few yards before another introduction was made.
Another exclamation about the dress and a few minutes of verbal dueling, albeit good-natured.
“You are drawing attention,” he whispered to her as they drifted to the perimeter of the room after a declaration had been made of dancing to commence.
“The dress draws attention. I do not,” Georgia commented.
“I think you would draw attention in a sackcloth,” Keaton replied without thinking.
“…Thank you for the compliment.”
She squeezed his arm, and he grunted.
“I did not intend to flatter. It was a simple statement of fact,” he said brusquely.
“Of course, heaven forbid that you should show me attention.”
“Do you mock me?”
“Yes, does it anger you?”
“Yes.”
Georgia laughed softly. “I feel undressed. Maybe while the dancing is happening, we should find somewhere less… occupied.”
“You mean somewhere with fewer eyes to stare at you,” he chuckled.
He slipped an arm around her waist, unable to keep from touching her as though that would keep her at his side. Or remind her and everyone else of whom she belonged to.
“We are here for a reason, though,” she sighed. “But we cannot dance together.”
“You mean that I cannot dance. That much is true. But you can,” Keaton replied.
Her silence and the shifting of her body told him she was staring at him. He smiled, looking towards her so she could look into his eyes.
“You cannot mean that.”
“It is far from unusual for a wife to accept a dance with another man at these occasions. It is expected even. We are all friends here, and a dance is perfectly innocent, is it not?”
“I would have thought it would induce jealousy,” Georgia said, uncertainly.
“What should I be jealous of?” Keaton replied, holding his emotions in tight check.
“That another man is holding me close,” she pointed out, directly.
Keaton took a deep breath. He reached out, finding Georgia’s waist and drawing her closer to him.
The feel of the sheer fabric beneath his hand was intoxicating.
The idea of any other man seeing her like this, let alone touching her, was maddening.
But she was correct. They were here for a reason, and abandoning the ball now or ceasing to participate would be a recipe for scandal.
He leaned towards her as he spoke, quite unconsciously.
He felt her rapid breath flutter upon his face.
He stroked her cheek, feeling the heat flaring up.
Imagined bright eyes fixed on his own, her lips parted.
He skillfully darted a touch across her lips, feeling her bite her lower lip.
His body responded to the image that conjured, of beauty and innocence.
Of experience hidden beneath the facade of naivety.
“Westvale, I wondered if I might request your wife’s hand for this dance,” Bath exclaimed, approaching. “My own wife is taking a turn around the floor with the Duke of Cornwall.”
“But of course, Your Grace,” Georgia replied brightly, “I should be honored.”
Her words were pointed. Keaton could feel their tips like needles as she left his side.
He imagined her smiling up at the older man, entirely properly of course.
Jealousy surged within him. Fury surged at his own infirmity, without which he would be the one dancing with Georgia.
He bit back the urge to refuse, to demand that Georgia leave with him. It would undo all their hard work.
Keaton told himself that the proof would be when she eventually returned to him. When they were alone, and he could reclaim her.
“May I say that you make a beautiful pair, Your Grace,” came a too-close voice with a strong French accent.
It was low and husky, the kind of voice that was accustomed to drawing and holding the attention of men. With it came a perfume that was heady and suggestive of shadows, wine, and rose petals. There was a spice to it that was unusual.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, madame,” Keaton replied, careful not to tilt his head in her direction, considering how close she was standing and how the interaction might be perceived by a clueless bystander.
“No, you have not,” the voice chuckled, “I am Antoinette de Marigne, my father is the former Duke of Marigne. Before those beastly revolutionaries stole everything from us. We were lucky to escape to England and to be welcomed by your King and embraced by your society. My, but she is quite the dancer, isn’t she? ”
“I would not know,” Keaton stated, matter-of-factly.
“Such grace and fluidity. Countless are the men tripping over their own feet for they are watching her instead of where they are standing. It is all rather comical.”
“A potent description.”
“A man should know if his wife is drawing eyes.”
“I know she is. That is a given.”
“And it does not bother you?”
“Why should it?”
Again, that sultry chuckle and the perfume grew stronger, as though Madame de Marigne had somehow stepped closer still.
“I would feel offended if my husband were to express no anger at my being pawed at by the eyes of other men. But perhaps, you know that you are safe.”
“I do.”
“Evidently. I hear whispers that your marriage was arranged at very short notice.”
Keaton turned his head in her direction for the first time at those words, knowing that his blind stare unsettled most.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked.
“Nothing at all. But maybe that is why you are safe. Because the marriage is so new and so unexpected, that true feeling has not yet developed.”
“And what, pray tell, gives you cause to say these things?” he pressed.
“I simply observe. As I said, you and your wife make a beautiful pair. Almost as though you were genuine.”
“Almost as though we were genuine? Implying there is something false about us. Or about our marriage?” he snapped.
“Forgive me, I misspoke. My English is not perfect. I meant to say genuinely. As though you were genuinely in love.”
“We are.”
A heartbeat of silence followed.
“Then I am disappointed to hear it.”
He felt a light touch on his arm, the whisper of breath as she moved away. He flinched at the touch, unable to control the instinctive reaction.
“There you are, Westvale. Your wife delivered back to you safe and sound,” Bath announced as the music came to an end.
Georgia returned to his senses, light and delicate compared to the heady sensualism of the Frenchwoman.
“Who was that?” Georgia asked, too innocently.
“Madame de Marigne. Her father was a refugee from the revolution,” Keaton replied, lost in thought at the lady’s earlier sentiments.
“She stood very close to you. Could she not hear you over the music?” Georgia continued with an awkward chuckle.
“Evidently not. It was rather loud.”
“Excuse the interruption. But may I request the honor of this next dance?” boomed another male voice.
“Why, of course,” Georgia chirped, “You do not mind, Your Grace?”
“By all means,” Keaton replied, smiling with teeth bared.
Georgia left his side again. She had not even sounded as though her good humor was forced this time.
He imagined her laughing with her new partner, describing the situation.
Laughing at him. Keaton wondered if the Lady Antionette would take the opportunity to further entice him.
He stood, seething as the music played and the sounds of dancing filled the air.
When Georgia returned to him this time, she was laughing.
The gentleman gave his name and thanks to Keaton who inclined his head gravely.
“I am doing sterling work in the name of our arrangement,” Georgia told him effervescently, “everyone I meet believes we are the most admired couple in the ton—there is not a whisper of scandal.”
“Then our arrangement is close to an end,” Keaton said abruptly, no longer hiding his derision.