Chapter 5
Agatha’s mother and father seemed to be having a wonderful time, for which she was deeply grateful. The truth was her mother and father were country people. They far preferred a field filled with galloping horses than a ballroom, but they were handling themselves with aplomb.
At present, her mama was near the punch table, drinking a pink-colored beverage amidst a group of ladies who all appeared to be grateful to have been noticed at all by the Duke of Rivers. Their jewels were gleaming, feathers were bobbing, and fans were waving.
Her father, in one of his biggest wigs, for her father still did love a good big wig, was standing with a group of gentlemen. No doubt they were talking about the best dogs.
Really, she wasn’t sure what they were discussing, but she could hear his booming voice and laughter even across the ballroom, despite the orchestra.
Oh, those poor musicians that she adored so much!
They really did have quite a lot to put up with, with company who preferred to talk rather than listen.
But people came to these engagements to see and be seen and to make connections.
Lords and ladies were dressed in elaborate and ostentatious frocks with large skirts and high hair and evidence of their wealth dripping from their every inch.
The entire room was one great big populace of silk bouncing about and embroidered coattails swinging. It was beautiful and loud and fun. And she found herself really quite pleased to have been invited to such a raucous affair.
Part of her had wondered if the parties of the very wealthy of the ton would be boring, but no, there seemed to be laughter on every person’s lips as people gushed about who they knew and what they had bought.
Wine was consumed in large gulps from crystal glasses that shone under the candles winking in the chandeliers hanging overhead.
Her night had just begun, but she needed to tell someone, anyone, about what had just occurred. She had not yet had time!
The ball had started off with her being asked to dance by three gentlemen.
It was quite a good start. She had already danced a reel, an allemande, and a country dance.
And it seemed that every time she finished one dance, she was asked to dance again, delaying her attempts to seek out a friend and divulge her exciting escapade.
Yes, escapade, for that was how she was determined to think of her meeting with the Duke of Westfort. He liked her very much. She knew it, and she rather thought he might ask her to dance this very evening.
It had been all he could do to stop himself from dancing with her in the hall just an hour ago. How thrilling it had been to ask him. How thrilling it had been to see him tempted. She’d been disappointed when he’d turned and gone away, but what was life without a little daring?
Now, perhaps he would be intrigued by her. Or not. She had little control over such future events.
Perhaps she would never speak to him again. She didn’t know why, but she definitely did feel disheartened by that idea. There was something about him, something charming and delicious…and ever so slightly sad, which somehow only managed to add to his charm.
At last, Agatha spotted her friend, Miss Cora Foster.
She let out a note of triumph and raced across the room.
The young American lady had lived in London now for the last several months, and they had hit it off at a card party because both of them were a trifle odd and didn’t always want the exact conversation expected to thrive in the ton.
Cora was the daughter of a shipping magnate from Boston and though she loved to talk about independence and all that, she was doing her very best to find an earl, at least, to marry.
Sentiments towards the Americans had improved, and quite frankly, Agatha adored Cora.
Cora’s gloved hands shot out immediately. They clasped each other and Agatha let out a bright laugh.
“You’ll never guess what happened to me.”
“Oh, do tell,” urged Cora as she glanced askance at the long table set with fine delicacies. “I almost got shoved into the punchbowl by an inebriated second son, and that seems like a rather ominous start to the evening. One doesn’t want to be bathed in pink punch.”
Agatha squeezed her friend’s hands and nodded.
How she adored Cora’s cheeky look at life.
She had found quite early on that if one spent time with cheerful people, one tended to be cheerful too, but if one spent too much time with dreary people, well, the world would go quite gray indeed.
And so she and Cora often went about hand in hand, trying to defy the gray nature of the world.
“I met the Duke of Westfort,” she whispered.
“Did you?” Cora asked, her brows rising. “Was he as impressive as I have heard?”
She bit her lip, then rushed, “He was stunned by me.”
Cora blinked. “Stunned?”
“Yes.” Agatha groaned. “He caught me dancing with my skirts up about my ankles. Like an opera girl.”
“He did not,” Cora exclaimed.
“He most certainly did, and I think it nearly seduced him.”
Cora threw back her head and let out a peal of laughter, the pale feathers in her hair fluttering about. “Are you going to be the next Duchess of Westfort, then?”
“Oh, heavens no,” she exclaimed, though much to her shock, she suddenly rather wished she could be, even if the job itself would be a good deal of work. She cleared her throat. “What a terrible drudgery of a life, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Cora mused. “If I were to marry a nobleman, then I think marrying a duke would be quite nice. Think of all the jewels, all the wealth, all the houses, all the horses. Think of all that one could do.”
Agatha snorted. “Yes, and all the people that you’d have to put up with and order about, and—”
“Ooh, I would love to order people about,” Cora put in.
“Cora.” Agatha tsked. “You are incorrigible.”
“I think that must be why my parents named me Cora, because they did find me incorrigible.”
Agatha grinned at her friend, knowing that whoever was lucky enough to have her would lead a very merry life indeed.
Cora’s lips parted into a perfect O before she gasped and started to lift her hand. “There he is,” Cora said.
“Don’t point,” Agatha warned. “He will see that we are talking about him.”
“I thought you nearly seduced him.”
“Only so far as asking him to dance, and he turned me down flat.”
“You asked him to dance?” Cora asked, amazed. “How could you do that? Ladies aren’t supposed to ask gentlemen to dance.”
“But we were alone. And excellent music was playing.”
Cora gaped at her before pointing out, “Especially if you were alone. He’s going to think you are the most frightful flirt.”
“Perhaps I am the most frightful flirt,” she returned, refusing to be distressed, for she’d been lucky enough to meet a duke this night. She was quite glad she hadn’t wasted the chance.
But just as she said those words, her eyes met the duke’s across the ballroom. He was dancing with a very prim-looking young lady, a lady who looked like she could never ever be the most frightful flirt, and they were doing the most perfect minuet Agatha had ever seen.
Each step was placed exactly where it should be.
His calf was turned out at the exact right angle and what a calf he did have.
The young lady’s hands were so graceful it looked as if she could easily drop perfect pearls of water off the tips of her fingers.
Her head was positioned to give the viewer the best possible sight of the line of her throat.
She wasn’t particularly beautiful, the young lady, but she was clearly wealthy and clearly important.
That was the sort of lady the Duke of Westfort would marry.
Agatha let out a sigh.
“Oh, don’t be disappointed,” Cora said. “I’m sure being married to someone like him would be terribly annoying and terribly tedious. There must be so many rules. And you hate rules.”
“Yes,” she agreed, even as she could not tear her eyes from the perfect couple. “Very tedious.”
Still, her heart… Her heart protested, as they looked upon each other, for despite the absurdity of it, their meeting had been so like what she had dreamed meeting her beloved might be.
And then…the duke looked back to her and his gaze crackled.
She licked her lips and whispered, “It would be full of rules, but he is so…”
“Yes?” Cora prompted, leaning in close.
“Delicious.”
The duke blinked and jerked his attention back to his partner, as if he’d overheard her say what she did.
She knew that he could not, not from so far across the ballroom and not with so much chatter, but there had been a moment, just a moment, when their eyes met, when everything had felt like that current that mesmerists used. Yes. It had felt electric.
Perhaps he would come ask her to dance.
But when the minuet was done, he led the young lady off the floor, returned to the group of people he was with, and began conversing even more deeply.
She could see that the young lady was waiting beside him, expecting him to ask her to dance one more time, though she didn’t appear particularly excited about it. But instead he turned from her and headed toward the doors of the ballroom.
“Well, drat,” she said, realizing she’d been all but on her tiptoes as she studied the duke. She was being ridiculous. A man like that would never consider someone like her. He’d all but said it! “He’s gone.”
“Probably for the best,” Cora said kindly.
“Exactly,” she agreed swiftly with forced cheer.
But then, much to her shock, the Duke of Westfort re-entered, a look of consternation upon his face, and he began to cross the room. Slowly, and then with more purpose as he wove through the enthusiastic crowd.
“No,” Cora breathed. “It’s not possible.”
“What?” she breathed, hardly daring to believe her own summation.
“He’s coming over here.” Cora grabbed her hand and squeezed. “He’s coming to ask you to dance.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” All the same, her heart leapt and her eyes met his glowing blue ones, and then she was caught in that gaze, caught in a way she’d never been caught before.
Disbelieving her own eyes, she whispered, “He would not ask someone as low and little as me to dance in this great big ballroom.”
“You must have made an impression.”
“I think it was a negative impression.” Yes. He was coming over to castigate her again. That had to be it. To find out where her mother was. “He seemed to think that I was going to ruin myself. He can’t be coming to me.”
But each step did indeed draw the duke closer until, at last, he towered over the two young ladies. He inclined his head to both, but then set his eyes upon Agatha.
“Is this dance taken?” he asked.
She fumbled with her dance card. “It is actually, yes.”
His brows rose sharply. “Well, I’m the Duke of Westfort, so that doesn’t matter.”
Her jaw dropped and Cora let out a peep of surprise.
“Dance with me.”
The gentleman that she was supposed to dance with, a Mr. Banks, who had two left feet and liked to talk about pudding, was venturing towards her.
She swallowed.
Westfort took one look at Banks, and Banks stopped dead in his tracks.
Westfort arched a brow. “You don’t mind, do you, sir, if I dance with the lady? It will be noted as a particular favor.”
Mr. Banks’s brows shot up and he fumbled with his hands, bowing and scraping, delighted to be addressed by such an important personage. “Whatever Your Grace requires.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ll get your name from the young lady and send you a card.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Banks gushed, then he turned and scampered off before he could muck his good fortune up.
“And who is this?” the duke said, gesturing to Cora.
Agatha’s heart began to pound. This was all highly irregular. The duke had not been properly introduced, yet here she was facilitating introductions to him.
“My friend, Miss Cora Foster.”
Cora gave an elegant curtsy.
The duke inclined his head to her again, but ignored her almost entirely, for he couldn’t seem to stop looking at Agatha.
“How nice to meet you, Your Grace,” Cora said.
“An American, is it?”
She nodded. “How very deductive you are.”
He arched a brow. “The two of you are similar, aren’t you? It’s why you’re friends. Both of you have no idea what you should and shouldn’t say.”
“And yet here you stand, Your Grace,” Agatha replied, for better or worse. “One might argue that I know exactly what to say.”
“Are you trying to catch my interest?” he asked.
“Not on purpose,” she said, “but I seem to have done so. The entire ballroom is also watching us now.”
“Bloody hell,” he said. “So they are. Then we might as well get to it.”
“And what is that, Your Grace?” she asked.
“Dancing,” he said, his sensual lips parting. “You did want to dance, didn’t you?”