Chapter 13
The Ball and Past Ghosts
Eleanor studied her reflection in the large, gilded mirror of her dressing room with a critical eye.
The deep purple gown had been a last-minute selection, purchased only that morning from Madame Delarue, who had gasped in delight when Eleanor had requested something “memorable.” The French modiste had not disappointed.
The rich silk caught the light with every movement, its modest neckline balanced by sleeves that left her shoulders daringly bare.
Tiny silver beadwork scattered across the bodice mimicked stars against a night sky.
“Perfect,” murmured Sally, her lady’s maid, stepping back to admire her handiwork. Eleanor’s caramel brown hair had been arranged in an elegant twist, with a few carefully placed tendrils framing her face. “His Grace will be most appreciative.”
“His Grace’s appreciation is not my concern,” Eleanor replied automatically, though her stomach fluttered traitorously at the thought of her pretend husband’s reaction.
She had spent the past three days in a state of constant awareness of him—his movements through the house, his half-buttoned shirts at breakfast, his infuriating ability to turn each of her schemes against her.
Worse, she found herself inexplicably drawn to his company, their verbal sparring matches becoming the highlight of her day rather than the deterrent she had intended.
“Of course not, Your Grace,” Sally replied with a knowing smile that Eleanor chose to ignore.
A knock at the door announced Simmons. “His Grace awaits you in the entrance hall, Your Grace.”
Eleanor took a steadying breath and rose. Tonight’s appearance at Lady Harrington’s ball would be their first public outing as husband and wife. The prospect filled her with an odd mixture of anticipation and dread.
When she descended the grand staircase, she found her husband waiting below, resplendent in formal evening attire. He cut a striking figure in black and white, his cravat perfectly arranged, his tailcoat emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders.
He looked up at her approach, and the flash of genuine admiration in his eyes sent a rush of warmth through her body.
“My duchess,” he said softly, extending his hand as she reached the bottom step. “You are absolutely breathtaking.”
Despite herself, Eleanor felt a blush rise to her cheeks. “Such honeyed words, Your Grace. One might think you’re trying to charm me.”
The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Always so suspicious. Perhaps I’m simply a man who finds his wife irresistible.” He lifted her gloved hand to his lips.
Their carriage ride to Harrington House was filled with a peculiar tension. Eleanor found herself acutely aware of his proximity in the confined space, the brush of his leg against her skirts when the carriage jostled, the way the passing streetlamps cast his strong profile into dramatic relief.
“We should establish our story,” she said, more to break the silence than anything else. “For those who inquire about our marriage.”
The duke turned toward her, his expression thoughtful. “Simple truths make the best deceptions, don’t you agree? We met through mutual acquaintances, corresponded for a time, and married by proxy due to my obligations abroad.”
“And your return?”
“Those obligations concluded, and I naturally hastened back to England to properly claim my bride.” His gaze held hers, intense and unreadable. “No one would question such a motivation upon seeing you, Eleanor.”
She looked away, unsettled by the way his words stirred something within her.
The carriage slowed as they approached Harrington House, its windows blazing with light, a steady stream of London’s elite ascending the steps to the grand entrance.
“Ready, Duchess?” her husband asked as a footman opened their carriage door.
Eleanor straightened her shoulders. “Perfectly.”
His hand was strong and steady as he helped her descend, then tucked her arm through his as they made their way up the marble steps. The touch, even through layers of gloves and fabric, felt oddly intimate—a partnership presented to the world, however false it might be in private.
“The Duke and Duchess of Westmore,” the major-domo announced as they crossed the threshold into Lady Harrington’s opulent ballroom.
A ripple of curious whispers followed their entrance.
Eleanor felt dozens of eyes assessing her gown, her jewels, her proximity to the duke who had been absent from Society for three years.
His Grace’s hand pressed reassuringly against the small of her back as he guided her forward to greet their hostess.
“Your Graces,” Lady Harrington exclaimed, her plump face alight with triumph at having secured such notable guests. “How absolutely delightful to have you both. We had no idea you had returned to London, Your Grace. Such a wonderful surprise.”
“The greatest surprise was awaiting me at home, Lady Harrington,” her cunning husband replied smoothly, his smile charming as he inclined his head toward Eleanor. “I couldn’t bear to be parted from my duchess a moment longer than necessary.”
Lady Harrington tittered with pleasure. “How romantic! You must tell me all about your travels in the East, Your Grace. Perhaps at my intimate dinner next Thursday? Both of you, of course.”
“I regret we are engaged elsewhere, Lady Harrington,” Eleanor replied before her pretend husband could extend their social obligations further. One night of performance was quite enough.
As they moved deeper into the ballroom, Eleanor became aware of a peculiar intensity to one particular gaze among the many directed their way.
She glanced discreetly toward the source—a woman standing near one of the ornate columns, her face pale with shock, her eyes fixed on the duke with such naked longing and fear that Eleanor felt as though she had intruded upon something deeply private.
The woman was pretty, with an innocent look about her—tall and willowy with rich auburn hair arranged in an elaborate style that emphasized her graceful neck. Her gown of pale green silk complemented her fair complexion perfectly.
Eleanor felt him tense almost imperceptibly beside her, though his expression remained pleasantly neutral. He had seen the woman too, she was certain of it, yet he made no acknowledgment of her presence.
“An acquaintance of yours?” Eleanor murmured, nodding subtly in the woman’s direction.
His smile didn’t waver. “Someone from my past,” he replied, his tone giving nothing away as he guided Eleanor toward a group of approaching well-wishers.
For the next half hour, they moved through the crowd as a united front, accepting congratulations and fielding questions about their “courtship” with ease.
Yet Eleanor remained aware of the auburn-haired woman, who consistently positioned herself to keep Damien in her sightline, her expression a complex mixture of longing and distress.
As they paused near a column to accept a glass of champagne from a passing footman, Eleanor’s attention was caught by a curious tableau unfolding across the ballroom.
Lady Adelaide Winters, resplendent in a gown of deep burgundy that complemented her red hair, stood conversing with the Countess of Eastmere, her fan moving in seemingly casual gestures.
Some twenty feet away, Lord Cedric Castleton leaned against the opposite wall, appearing thoroughly engrossed in conversation with Lord Harrington, yet Eleanor noticed Lord Cedric’s eyes occasionally flickering toward Lady Adelaide.
Though they gave every appearance of being indifferent toward each other, Eleanor observed a subtle synchronicity to their movements.
When Lady Adelaide shifted her position slightly to the left, Lord Cedric casually strolled a few paces to his right, maintaining what seemed to be a carefully calculated distance.
When she touched her right earring while laughing at something the countess said, Lord Cedric checked his pocket watch with his left hand.
“What has captured your attention so thoroughly, my darling wife?” her so-called husband asked, following her gaze across the room.
Before Eleanor could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew everyone’s attention as the Countess of Caldwell made a dramatic entrance with her three daughters in tow.
By the time Eleanor looked back, the curious dance between Lady Adelaide and Lord Cedric had dissolved—Lady Adelaide now chatting animatedly with both the countess and a nervous gentleman, while Lord Cedric had vanished entirely from view.
“Nothing of consequence,” Eleanor replied, returning her attention to the duke. “Merely observing the usual Society maneuvers.”
When they had a moment relatively alone near the refreshment table, Eleanor asked quietly, “The woman in green—she seems quite affected by your presence. A former love, perhaps?”
His gaze met hers, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before he masked it. “Yes,” he admitted after a brief hesitation. “But we ended our acquaintance before I departed for the East.”
A pang of jealousy twisted in Eleanor’s chest. She told herself it was merely curiosity, not any personal investment in her temporary husband’s romantic history. “She appears to be taking your marriage rather poorly. She looks positively heartbroken.”
His expression hardened slightly. “You’re mistaken. She’s the one who ended our association.”
“Indeed?” The revelation bothered Eleanor more than she cared to admit. This elegant woman had possessed her husband’s heart and discarded it. The notion that someone had wounded the seemingly unflappable duke, had rejected the man who commanded every room he entered, felt strangely offensive.
“The orchestra is beginning a waltz,” the duke observed, clearly wishing to change the subject. “Would my duchess honor me with a dance?”