Chapter Fifteen
Mrs. Johnson’s small ballroom was made even smaller by the positioning throughout of various large potted plants and material that hung in swoops from the ceiling. Kate batted one away in irritation. Celine was short enough to find it charming, if her glowing look was anything to go by.
Somewhere, obscured by plants, et cetera, a young woman was singing in an unlikely Scottish accent.
As Kate walked deeper into the room, conversations faltered, and a number of people forgot themselves enough to stop and stare.
Lords with whom she was acquainted nodded, eyebrows raised as though to say, You’re here?
The debutantes, however, who were clustered together like pastel clouds, who had never in their lives seen or thought to see her …
Consciousness of her presence passed through them like a strong wind, raising blushes and gasps.
She gritted her teeth and made for the refreshments room next door, which was mercifully free of decoration. She might have to attend this blasted event, but she could at least avoid being blinded by drapery.
Evidently, she wasn’t alone in seeking refuge: The number of younger gentlemen there was considerably higher than in the ballroom.
She very soon realised that among this crowd, it wasn’t herself who attracted an open, admiring attention bordering on rudeness.
It was Celine, on her arm, scrubbed clean and dressed with almost ascetic plainness, save for her mouth and the rose in her hair.
Her mouth. Her mouth.
Christ, Kate needed a stiff drink.
“Do you see Lord Burnley?” Celine asked eagerly, apparently immune to the attention she was receiving. One could only hope Lord Burnley was not a jealous man.
“He will find us,” Kate said with grim certainty, then made her way to the drinks table. Not a bloody spirit in sight. Only sweet ratafia. In desperation, she accepted a glass.
Her name was called across the room by a welcome voice.
She turned and saw Richard making his way towards her.
He was dressed severely in black and white.
It was a new look, and it suited him very well, bringing his striking dark eyes and hair into sharp relief.
She watched, amused, as his journey was halted again and again by friends, acquaintances, and colleagues stopping him for a chat, a laugh, a word on some topic that might be a parliamentary matter or might be salacious gossip—it was impossible to tell.
He applied himself with equal seriousness to both.
Her own passage had, in contrast, been a little like the parting of the sea.
When at last he reached her, he looked harried and embarrassed. Then he spotted the drink in her hand. “Oh dear,” he said, and fell into good-natured laughter. His eyes slid curiously to Celine, widening a little.
She was loath to introduce Richard to the blood-sucking tick, but she couldn’t avoid it.
“If you would give over amusing yourself at my expense for a moment … My ward, Miss Genet. Miss Genet, my cousin, Mr. Richard Howard, rising star of the House of Commons, and future prime minister of all Great Britain.”
He coloured again, looking pleased. He bowed, and though he wasn’t loutish enough to outright stare, he clearly wasn’t immune to Celine’s beauty. Richard, you idiot, she thought, no.
“A cousin!” Celine said with the French inflection. “And yet the duke acknowledges you?”
It was a pert little remark that made Richard laugh.
Then, with a tone of unmistakeable concern (what was it about Celine that engendered such swift sympathy?): “I heard about what happened on Bond Street yesterday. I hope you were unharmed? Lord Royston can be…” He shook his head, frustrated.
“She could be extraordinary. I pray she finds her way, before it is too late.”
“I like Lord Royston,” Celine said simply, but with something in her tone that discouraged further discussion.
Richard (Royce had, after all, once spat on him in public) hesitated, then bowed again, conceding the point. Kate felt … She didn’t know what she felt. It was live, and warm, and awful. Celine had seen Royce at her worst and still … she liked her?
Something caught Richard’s attention, and he seemed relieved at the opportunity to lighten the mood. He gripped Kate’s upper arm and leaned in. Gleefully, like someone’s meddling maiden aunt, he said, “Lord Burnley has arrived. Allow me to introduce you.”
“I am perfectly capable of—”
“Oh no, cousin, I insist,” he said, laughing at her, already heading off to intercept Lord Burnley. At least someone was amused by the whole thing. It was some minutes before Kate caught sight of Richard again, and the man he was squiring back to meet her.
Her heart sank.
Not because his parents were a step behind him, Lord Pecke’s zealot eyes focused on Kate with the clear intention of chewing her ear off for the next two hours, but because the young man with Richard was ugly. Unhandsome in every way.
He had a broad face and a weak, recessed chin. Large eyes, set a little askew. His thinning hair was cut with sober pragmatism. He had the soft figure of an academic, and though his clothes were well-made, they were functional rather than stylish.
Celine wouldn’t go for him. And Kate didn’t have the prerogative a real guardian might, of insisting.
It was unfortunate that Lord Burnley appeared to a particular disadvantage beside Kate’s handsome cousin, whose tall, spare lines were set off to perfection in his black-and-white clothing, his thick hair tumbling about his face, his eyes in their pretty, dark lashes full of good, warm humour as he exchanged pleasantries.
He obviously liked Lord Burnley a good deal and thought nothing of Burnley’s looks.
Kate could’ve killed him.
He thought the rest of the world as unbiased as himself! She loved him for his goodness, and sometimes he seemed to her so na?ve she didn’t know how the world hadn’t yet eaten him whole.
“Kate, allow me to present Lord Burnley. Lord Burnley, Her Grace the Duke of Howard.”
The young lord gave the introduction all his polite attention; his gaze never strayed to Celine until they were introduced. After that, he couldn’t look anywhere else. The poor sod.
As Lord Pecke descended on Kate directly after, the extent of her misstep became clear. She had entangled herself with the Peckes. She had signalled a willingness to listen to Lord Pecke and even to lend him some of her consequence in Lords, which wouldn’t be without its own cost.
She had given Lady Pecke to understand certain intentions regarding Miss Genet and Lord Burnley, which must be carefully, delicately rescinded if she didn’t want to expose herself and Celine to scandal. Scandal would make marriage elsewhere more difficult.
She had taken a single step in the wrong direction, and correcting course would take time she didn’t have.