Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“He is the one who should have employed a society tutor,” Frances muttered to herself, as she fidgeted restlessly on the periphery of another grand ballroom.
Lord and Lady Westford always had the privilege of hosting the first true ball of the Season, after the debutantes had been introduced, and they had spared no expense this year.
Their imposing home had transformed into a botanical garden, every surface and wall and doorway covered in flowers and foliage, the ceiling turned into some manner of fairy bower, where vines and ivy draped downward.
Breathtakingly beautiful, but Frances could not enjoy it, not until she had given Dominic a piece of her mind.
“Did you say something?” Juliet asked, as she sipped a glass of lemonade.
“I was just remarking on the decorations,” Frances replied, searching the ballroom for any sign of Dominic and Harriet.
Puffing a lock of hair out of her eye, Juliet turned her gaze up to the ivy ceiling. “I fear something unpleasant is about to drop out at any moment. If there is a single spider, the entire ball will fall into chaos.”
“Spiders serve a most excellent purpose,” Lucinda chimed in. “Houses would be overrun with flies if it were not for spiders.”
“I would rather have the flies,” Juliet insisted, the two women descending into another hissed squabble.
At that moment, the music for the previous set came to a slow conclusion, the dancers bowing and curtseying to one another respectively.
Some remained to dance again, while the majority were led away from the dance floor, the ladies escorted back to their families or chaperones.
And in that shifting of bodies, couples exchanged for couples, Frances’ heart sank as Harriet appeared at the edge of the dance floor.
Dominic must be determined for Harriet to end the Season alone, she cursed silently, as she had to watch that sweet young woman take to the floor with Lord Ainsley at her side. And there, entirely unconcerned, was Dominic, moving off toward the doors that led out onto the terrace.
Without bothering to interrupt her sisters’ argument, Frances marched off, practically shoving her way through the throng of revelers, ignoring the cold looks and muttered insults and indignant yelps.
“Are you mad?” she whispered harshly, as she made it to where he stood, his gaze turned out toward the gardens.
He blinked in surprise. “Frances? I had hoped to see you here. I looked for you, but there are too many people.”
“Forget about me,” she said, drawing something out of her reticule, the papers all crushed and crinkled.
“Have you read the scandal sheets today? Do you have any idea what you are doing? It is the second ball of the Season, and you are trampling on any hope Harriet might have of becoming the diamond.”
A frown furrowed his brow, his attention flitting to his daughter. “Of course I have not read the scandal sheets. They are filth.” He paused. “Have they mentioned my daughter?”
“A brief mention, but one that may be lasting if you are not more careful,” she chided, so full of anger that her breath seemed hotter, and she found that she was trembling from head to toe.
She would have liked to tell herself that it was simply because Dominic was threatening to undo all of the good that she had done with Harriet, but she was no great liar.
If they had not been in such a public arena, she knew she would not have been able to restrain herself at all, cursing him for making her think that things had changed.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“It was considered peculiar that Lord Ainsley should show such interest in Harriet, so early in the Season,” Frances replied, pushing the crumpled scandal sheets into his hand. “They danced twice yesterday. Did you know that?”
Dominic’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “No, I did not.”
“Well, perhaps if you had not been…” she glanced around to ensure no one was close enough to overhear “… out in the gardens, you might have been able to prevent it. Harriet knows it is just proper to dance twice with a gentleman, but we both know that she has a desire to push the rules, to see how strict they actually are. And now, she is dancing with him again!”
“He is my cousin’s friend,” Dominic replied flatly. “I would rather she dance with him than the gentlemen who stare at her and see a hefty dowry.”
Frances faltered, her anger stalling for a moment. “So, you do not want her to be a success this Season?”
“I want her to take her time,” he replied with a shrug.
“I do not want her to fall for false charm and a handsome face; I want her to find a love match. Any gentleman who would be dissuaded because she danced a few times with a family acquaintance is not worthy of her, nor is any gentleman who reads what scandal sheets have to say.”
A flood of embarrassment added to the warmth in her face, replacing the feverish tingle of wounded anger.
She had assumed he did not know what he was doing, incapable of navigating a society he had been apart from for so long.
She had not thought it was deliberate, intended not to destroy Harriet’s chances but to ensure that she had the best chance of making a true and lasting love match.
“Nevertheless,” she muttered, “you should be more careful. Lord Ainsley is an unmarried gentleman, after all. Unless Harriet is dancing with you or the Duke of Ravenvale, she may still be judged so harshly that she receives no invitations. She cannot meet a potential love match if she is not invited anywhere.”
Dominic opened out the scandal sheets and, much to Frances’ horror, he began to read.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
“Seeing how cautious I need to be.”
A fresh flourish of annoyance prickled through her. “It is unseemly to do that here.”
“You gave the pages to me,” he replied, his eyes flitting from left to right, absorbing the gossip.
Exasperated, she snatched the sheets out of his hand and stuffed them back into her reticule. The abrupt motion seemed to snare the attention of a few of the nearest revelers, the burn of their curious gaze creeping over her skin, their indecipherable whispers tickling her eardrums.
“You are impossible,” she mumbled, as she moved to the opposite side of the open terrace door and pretended she was not in conversation with him at all. A weak camouflage, but it was the only thing she could think of.
A resonant chuckle rumbled from his chest, pouring fuel onto her irritation.
What right did he have to laugh at her after last night?
If it had not been for the mention of Harriet in the scandal sheets, she likely would not have approached him at all.
Indeed, she liked to think she would never have spoken with him again, for his absence today assuredly made his stance clear: she was so very unmarriageable that she could be kissed without expectation of a formal arrangement.
For a while, they were silent, Frances glaring out into the night-drenched gardens where the scent of jasmine wafted on the cold breeze, Dominic observing his daughter as the dance continued.
“Very well,” he said, breaking the stalemate. “I will see to it that Harriet is aware of the remark in the scandal sheets, and I shall inform her not to dance with the viscount again.”
Frances gave a short, sharp nod. “Good.” She turned, her chin up in defiance. “Then, if you will excuse me, I must return to my sisters before I am the one tossed into another scandal.”
“Do not walk away cross with me,” he said quietly, yet with the same command that had punctuated their first meeting. “I do not want us to argue.”
She was about to whisper, “Well, you should have thought about that before you kissed me, then did not call upon me,” but he got in ahead of her, his eyes shining with something like hope as he murmured, “Will you join us for dinner tomorrow night? I would like to speak to you properly and thank you properly, but I cannot do it here.”
Her legs forgot how to walk, leaving her rooted to the spot, with her tongue just as frozen.
It would be like she was at Alderwick again, dining in peace with Dominic and Harriet. Nothing would have made her happier, yet she could not just give in like that, not after the day’s insult of him staying away.
“I do not know if that would be wise,” she remarked, conscious of the people milling about, some of them wandering too close for comfort. “I am very busy and I cannot say that I am able to spare the time.”
He gave a small nod. “A place will be set for you anyway. Six o’clock.”
Her traitorous, feeble heart fluttered furiously, her stomach twisting into knots of anxious excitement, her mind already leaping a day ahead to sitting at his dining table, where she would not have to be so aware of the countless pairs of eyes that might be watching, judging, conjuring gossip.
“Harriet would be glad to have you to talk to,” he said with a half-smile. “And I would be glad of your company.”
Frances met his gaze, and hoped her expression was sterner than the feelings that whirled and crackled within her. “We shall see. I cannot make any promises.”
“I shall wait,” he replied.
Narrowing her eyes, she shook her head. “You should not, or the dinner may get cold.”
She walked off before he could say something else to confuse and infuriate her, but as her hand came to rest on her chest, where her heart pounded so viciously, she could almost feel the heat of the tiny flame of hope that his invitation had reignited.