Chapter 2
Miss Agatha Allen loved her brothers and sisters. She loved her mother and father. She loved society. Really, she loved everyone and everything. Why shouldn’t she?
Of course, there were tiring individuals and tiring things, but she had everything that she could possibly want. Why would she waste her time with any sort of dislike or irritation?
But more than anything else, though it might sound like hyperbole, and perhaps it was, she loved a fantastic, frothy piece of Mozart.
And at present, her heart was singing and her body was bouncing and her hem was swaying. She couldn’t control herself.
Her mother and father knew this about her. It was possibly the riskiest thing about her entering society.
She was about to have her first Season, and she had been told on repeated occasions not to bounce about to the music. But how could one not bounce about to music such as this?
As she stood in the side room whilst the rehearsal of the orchestra before the Duke of Rivers’ ball that evening was to take place, she could not stop her knees from bending or her body from moving back and forth to “Rondo Alla Turca.”
It wasn’t a dance song. She would never be allowed to do anything to it. One could not waltz to it. One could not do a minuet to it. One could not do a reel, a jig, or any of the assigned dances.
And yet, did it not crave movement?
It did.
Agatha Allen beamed from ear to ear. How lucky she was to be standing in the Duke of Rivers’ house in a side room, by the ballroom, listening to the most excellent orchestra that had been brought in from Paris to perform this night—a lot of musicians were fleeing Paris at present—alone.
Alone! What heaven! What possibility!
They were rehearsing, and they were rehearsing with vigor.
Oh, how it made her blood sing. And before she could stop herself, she was moving about said side room.
Her father was in another room in conversation with the Duke of Rivers. She really had no idea why, but her mother and father, who loved each other dearly and were quite the most magnificent, if odd, couple had been summoned.
And when one was summoned by the Duke of Rivers, one obeyed.
Their arrival had been met with great enthusiasm and she had followed her parents, who knew how to make an entrance with booming voices and fluttering lace.
Oh, how she loved them. They were vibrant, caring, carefree, and just happy to be where they were, for people of her sort were generally not invited into these echelons of society.
Yes, her father was a lord and, yes, there were lords in his family for ten generations back, but they were landowners with more sheep than real power.
Most of the time, they did not come up to London. They only came to London to get a daughter married, or a son, she supposed, though her brothers did not really need the intervention of her mama. They seemed determined to drink, dance, and make merry with their lives.
And yet Agatha felt absolutely no resentment that it was her turn to marry, while they had years to go, even if they were several years older than her.
No, she loved the idea of getting married.
She’d been preparing for it for years, and this night, yes, this night would be her first foray into a ballroom filled with lords and ladies and potential mates.
She was going to find the love of her life this Season, and it was going to be perfectly splendid, and she would be as happy as her mother and father.
How could she not? She had dreamt about it every night for the last year, envisioning her fellow.
He would sweep her up. They would have the most ridiculous and funny of conversations. Their quirkiness would match each other’s, and they would be wed.
All would be revealed and the great adventure of her life would begin.
Her favorite part of “Rondo Alla Turca” suddenly rushed through the air, and she could not stop herself. She picked up the hem of her skirt and began sashaying to the left, sashaying to the right, sashaying up and down the hall.
She was by herself as she waited for her parents. What was the harm in it? There was no harm. No, it was pure delight. She beamed brightly, and joy filled her from top to bottom because life was about to begin.
Adam Crawford, The Duke of Westfort, had found a bride.
He did not like her. Which, of course, meant she was perfect.
Yes, he looked at the small miniature that he kept tucked in his pocket. She was the one meant for him. Or at least, that was what the dictates of several generations of Westfort dukes demanded.
Several months ago, he had asked his mother and his man of business, who he allowed to manage a great deal of his life, to reach out to this particular young lady’s mother and the people who managed her life to begin the tentative process of deciding whether Lady Hortense Larkin might make the list of potential brides for him.
Through the gathering of much information, she had.
Yes, she ticked every requirement, one of which being that he had no feelings at all for her.
And yet, he wished… No. He didn’t wish. He refused to think of that last and rather harrowing conversation he had had with his father on his deathbed, as the candles had guttered, shadows had danced, and his father had struggled with his last breaths.
But he couldn’t deny that those last words had done something to him. They had planted a seed in him to want something more, something the men of his family never had, desired, or pursued.
Love.
He shook the thought from his head. All his life, his father and mother had raised him to believe that love was disastrous for marriage and that liking one’s spouse was a terrible thing to prioritize. Power was the most important thing.
And decades of such teachings had stuck. He wouldn’t let a strange, aching wish rule him.
The list of potential brides was still quite active.
He had not yet met Lady Hortense.
Nor had he asked her to marry him. There had also been no formal proposal in writing. It was all still quite tentative.
But he would be meeting her tonight, and based upon everything that he had found out about her through the negotiations of his mother and her assistants?
She was perfect. She was boring. She had a good education. She spoke five languages. She could dance. She could sing. She could play the pianoforte and the harp. She could run a large household, and apparently she had remarkable hips for producing heirs.
Lady Hortense’s mother had produced three sons. Her grandmother had produced four and so on and so forth. There was a guarantee that she would provide a male heir.
It was an indelicate thing to say, but many families were desperate to marry into dukedoms. The Larkins were not exactly desperate, but everyone—well, anyone who was anyone—wanted to be considered for his duchess.
And he really didn’t think about it much. Truly. He had not stayed up for hours considering who his mate might be. Who would bear his children. Who would be the other half of his—
Balderdash. He ground his teeth as he roamed Rivers’ halls. Tonight was for finding a suitable bride, not love.
Marriage in his family was just a meeting of two households, two family lines, two arrangements of large assets, and the merger of them. And it was imperative that he not like his wife.
There had been one duke in his family who had loved his wife, or so they said. It was more of a legend. Adam wasn’t actually certain if this person existed, but the story told his marriage had been a complete and total disaster.
For a brief moment, his father’s burning gaze, full of regret, rose before him, an unwanted specter as he urged Adam to dare to want something no Crawford, at least that they could say without reservation, had ever dared to want.
No, no. Marriage was a business. Marriage was the coming together of two people to ensure that there were more people to continue that line.
And one did not need to like one’s spouse.
As a matter of fact, he’d been assured time and time again that when one liked their prospective spouse, difficulties arose.
Matters of temperament happened. Jealousy.
Things that were difficult and all-consuming.
Adam, as every Westfort duke had done, had every intention of housing his wife in an entirely different wing of his own abode.
Yes, like all other Westfort dukes, he liked things the way he liked them. His wife would like things the way she liked them, and, really, who wanted to live a life of compromise?
Giving up what one enjoyed just to please the other person, whilst they gave up what they enjoyed, just to try to please in return, was surely a recipe for disaster.
And the newspapers recently had quite proved it. This idea of marrying for love? It was burning through the ton, and the last century had shown what a complete and utter disaster it was.
His father was mistaken. His words had been the last delusions of a dying man. And his own ridiculous heart, which had begun to whisper to him of late, was a traitor to the Westfort line.
He paused before a mirror and adjusted his cravat and the emerald stick pin that held it in place. Everything was in place. His dark hair was in place. His clothes were in place. His mind was in place, and his heart, well, his heart really needn’t be bothered.
Music was echoing from the adjacent ballroom.
The Duke of Rivers had invited him to meet with Lady Hortense this evening. Dukes really did need to stick together.
He wondered when Rivers would find a wife, but Rivers seemed determined to go his own way. He was an unusual fellow, but Adam did like him. The world needed people like Rivers. People who were strong-minded and determined to do the right thing, just like himself.
Well, most of the time.
There were those urges.
Urges to throw all propriety aside, urges to live wildly and passionately and be on fire. But when things were on fire, things were destroyed. Completely destroyed. Ashes ensued.
And he had no business doing that to a lineage that had been preserved and handed down for centuries. He was a custodian, a steward, and it was damn well his job to ensure that his lands, his houses, and his power, well, the family’s power, got passed on without damage.
Damage? No, not without damage. Without decreasing. His job was to increase the family’s power and influence, and by God, he would. His heart be damned.
Except…
Cursing himself, Adam tugged on his coat sleeves. It was as if his life felt slightly tight today.
Determined to go and find the duke, have a word before the ball started, and make sure everything was perfectly set so that he could have a perfectly adequate meeting with Lady Hortense, he went farther down the hall. Something caught his eye through a half-open door.
A flurry of silk and lace, a laugh that skipped through the hall. The pattering of slippers filled the air. His breath caught in his throat, and he could not believe his eyes.
Surely, he was witnessing a dream, a mirage, something completely and totally within his head, but he had not imbibed.
He was not given to flights of fancy. And there was really only one conclusion.
There was a young woman who had lost her mind dancing in one of the Duke of Rivers’ rooms to “Rondo Alla Turca,” and by God, she looked as if she was on fire.