Chapter Five
Clem leaned forward and stared through the carriage window at the brightly lit windows of the Duke of Monteith’s London home, although “home” was too small a word to encompass the magnificent building.
It reared so high her neck hurt as she tipped her head back, trying to see all the way to the roof.
Apparently, so Papa had told her, sculpted Greek Muses and warriors posed atop, alternately guarding and blessing all civilized and artistic endeavors within.
The duke’s London residence almost rivaled Prinny’s palace. With soaring Greek columns and a wide set of steps that led to a grand pair of doors easily ten feet tall, the duke’s palace both inspired awe and intimidated Clem.
How could she enter such a grand abode and dance as though she had not a care in the world?
Not when her heart was broken.
Not a single word had arrived from Will, and none of her acquaintances had seen him since the night of Jasper’s ball. Lavinia herself could shed no light on his whereabouts during Clem’s morning call.
“Have faith, my dear,” Lavinia had said and patted her hand, but the sympathy in her expression was more than Clem could bear.
Mama touched her knee as the coach rocked to a stop. “Smile, Clementine. No one will want to dance with you if you look like you’ve sucked on a lemon. ’Tis the last ball of the Season, and I have high hopes you will catch the eye of—”
“Yes, Mama. I will smile and do all that is proper.” Fixing a smile in place, Clem waited for her mother to alight, then took advantage of the footman’s arm to descend. She pulled her cloak more tightly around her and shivered. Since Will had vanished, it seemed she could never get warm.
She had been so certain of his regard, of his love, and yet . . .
Not a note.
Not a single word from Will since his kiss had given her a tantalizing glimpse of what married life with him could be.
Had she been a fool? Was this why society believed young ladies should rely on others to guide them in the business of marriage? Because their heads were so easily turned by sweet words and even sweeter kisses?
Refusing to give in to her fear, Clem accepted the footman’s assistance to descend.
Following her parents into the soaring tiled hall was like walking into feeding time at the Tower Zoo.
The line of guests—the cream of London society still in town for the Little Season—chattered and twittered, invading her ears and her mind until thoughts of Will fled under the onslaught.
The noise filled the space as the receiving line snaked up an imposing set of stairs that wound up to the second-floor ballroom like the inside of the halved Nautilus shell Will had given her.
At the top, another set of high double doors stood open wide, giving onto the ballroom.
Clem handed her cloak to one of an army of maids and collected her numbered ticket for the item before joining her parents on the grand staircase. Laughter and conversation assaulted her ears, making it difficult to think her own despairing thoughts.
Mama’s fingers fluttered, touching her perfectly coiffed hair, but her smile was broad. “It will be a tremendous crush, Clementine. I do hope we have not arrived too late to fill your dance card. Why ever did you decide to change your gown at the last moment?”
Clem lifted the pale blue gown as she climbed the first step of the grand staircase. The gold trim glittered in the light of a thousand candles, warm and seemingly alive as she moved. Much warmer than her frozen, desolate heart.
Lifting her head, she glanced at Mama. “I thought the gold trim more suited to a ball at the duke’s palace.”
Blue is Will’s favorite color. But those were words she could not speak to her mother.
“Hmm.” Mama looked intently at the skirt.
“Perhaps you were right, my dear. It catches the light in a way that is quite eye-catching.” She said no more to Clem, but chattered away to Clem’s father, who smiled fondly but replied with monosyllables and ahem sounds whenever there was a pause in her conversation.
As the stairs rose and curved to her left, Clem idly observed those ahead of them. The gaze of a gentleman near the head of the stairs connected with hers. He did not boorishly ogle her, but he appeared to be observing her with an unusual degree of attention.
Her heart skipped a beat. She was almost sure he was the same man Will had stopped to talk to that night at Lavinia’s ball.
The night Will kissed me. When he proposed . . .
Except he hadn’t. Not in so many words.
And the next day, he had delivered a beautiful bouquet, then disappeared.
But if the gentleman was a friend of Will’s, perhaps he had knowledge of his whereabouts and what had taken him from her on what should have been the happiest day of her life before her marriage.
Preoccupied with plotting how to speak to a gentleman whose name she didn’t know and to whom she had not been introduced, she was surprised to find they had reached the head of the line.
Before her, the Duke and Duchess of Monteith were resplendent, gracious, and welcoming as they received Lord and Lady Basingthwaite and their daughter.
Clem sank into a low curtsy. “Your Grace.”
As she rose, the duchess, whom Mama had earlier told her was in her forties by now and past childbearing age, held her hand for a moment. Kind blue eyes in a still unlined face looked at her, and she held Clem’s hand between both of hers. “There is someone I would like to introduce you to later.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. That is very kind of you.”
Mama beamed beside her. As soon as they were past their ducal hosts, she caught Clem’s elbow. “Did Her Grace say she was going to introduce you to someone?”
“Yes, Mama.”
Mama turned to Clem’s father. “Did you hear that, Horace? The duchess herself has taken an interest in our daughter. Did she say to whom? Oh my, I feel lightheaded with the honor.”
It was not long before the duchess appeared at Clem’s side and drew her away.
They stopped beneath a vast painting of a couple beside a lake in the middle of a woodland scene.
The woman in the picture looked very much like her hostess, and the man surely was the duke, although some years younger than the nobleman to whom she had been presented.
Clem turned to ask and realized the duchess was beckoning someone to join them.
“Lady Clementine, I would like to introduce you to a dear friend of mine, Lord Rufus Marsden, Lady Clementine Basingthwaite.”
Clem bit back a tiny gasp as the gentleman stepped forward and bowed oh so elegantly over her hand. This was the man to whom Will had spoken!
At the time, she had thought they looked comfortable together, like old friends. She hoped she wasn’t wrong.
Gathering her scattered wits, she curtsied and then looked up into a pair of eyes as blue as the twilight sky.
Lord Marsden was of similar height to Will, and beneath his coat—did his tailor choose that blue vest to match his eyes?
—he was broad across the shoulders with muscle that owed nothing to padding.
Clem despised padding. In her mind, it was akin to lying.
“Lady Clementine, may I claim two dances with the fairest maid at the ball?”
“Certainly, Lord Marsden. Having only just arrived, you may have your choice of any dance.” She held out her dance card, allowing him to select those he wished to claim while she tried to work out the best way to ask him about Will.
Handsome, with dark hair in the fashion of Lord Byron, the man certainly looked heroic. He would be the catch of any Season for some lucky young woman, and he had a smile that would charm most, young or old. But Clem wanted only one man to smile at her, and he had vanished.
Aware of envious glances quickly concealed behind fans, she tried to summon more than a modicum of gratitude.
Every matchmaking mama probably wanted to scratch her eyes out at this moment, so why didn’t she feel more honored?
For heaven’s sake, this was an earl inviting her to dance.
Following his lead, it would be no time before other gentlemen filled every space on her dance card. Mama would be delighted.
And she was honored—but why had the duchess singled her out for such an introduction?
Lord Marsden handed the dance card back to her, and she settled the thin loop of gold ribbon over her wrist. “Lady Clementine, I look forward to your company for a waltz and the supper dance, and to learning more about you.” He bowed, a slight incline of his head.
Small as the movement was, it drew her attention down to his ebony cane with a carved ivory head.
Why did a man who moved so gracefully carry a cane? The affectation was a small blight on his perfection.
Dipping into a graceful curtsy, she was left with more questions and no answers, as well as a disconcerting realization that she had forgotten to ask him how he knew Will.
An hour or more later, having finished the quadrille, the latest in a passing blur of partners delivered her back to Mama. There was not one among them whose name or conversation she recalled.
Clem was young and strong and adored dancing, especially with Will. But Will wasn’t here, and she felt as dull as a dishrag.
She rested a hand against the pillar soaring high above her mother and wriggled one foot inside her dancing slipper.
Mama looked up and smiled, the smile of a matchmaking mother basking in the glow of her daughter’s success.
“Thanks to the duchess’ introduction, your dance card reads like a miniature version of Debrett’s.
Surely one of these gentlemen will meet with your approval now we have arrived at the end of the third Season, you begged of your father . . . Oh, stop fidgeting, Clementine.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Longing to escape the stifling ballroom—indeed, wishing the evening were at an end—she was surprised when Lord Marsden appeared from around the pillar.