Chapter 1 #2
Julian nodded. “We were acquainted during my years at university. He was already married then, but devoted, truly so. His wife was the center of his world. After her passing, he withdrew from society altogether and we lost touch.”
“I had heard he was reclusive,” Phoebe added. “He has not attended a ball in years.”
“Indeed,” Julian replied. “He retreated to Scotland and seldom ventured south. Many believed he would never remarry.”
“And now he is here,” Lucinda said slowly.
“And now he is here,” Julian echoed. “I suspect our mother is already considering the implications.”
Lucinda made a face. “I had feared as much.”
Phoebe smiled knowingly. “You are precisely the sort of young lady such a gentleman would be expected to pursue: beautiful, accomplished, well-dowered, and, above all, unencumbered.”
“Unencumbered,” Lucinda repeated dryly. “As though I were a carriage awaiting a destination.”
Julian chuckled. “Mother will undoubtedly wish you to make his acquaintance.”
“I have no wish to make his,” Lucinda countered shortly.
Phoebe studied her. “You object to him in particular?”
“No,” Lucinda said, “I object to the notion of him, or any man, for that matter, who seeks a wife merely to satisfy expectation or restore a household.”
“And what do you seek?” Julian asked gently.
Lucinda hesitated only a moment. “I seek love, or at the very least, the possibility of it. I will not be married for convenience, Julian. I will not be bargained into a life that feels borrowed.”
Phoebe’s gaze softened. “You are right to want more.”
Julian nodded. “And I will stand by you, whatever Mother may say.”
Lucinda smiled at him, gratitude warm in her eyes. “You always have.”
Before Julian could respond, a familiar presence intruded. Lady Brentwood approached them, her expression alight with barely contained excitement, her fan fluttering like a restless bird in her gloved hand.
“Lucinda, my dear,” she said, her voice carrying just enough sweetness to disguise the determination beneath it. “There you are. I have been searching the room for you.”
“I am not lost,” Lucinda replied glumly. “Merely momentarily indisposed.”
Lady Brentwood ignored this. “Have you heard the news?”
“I fear I have,” Lucinda said, droll.
“The Duke of Ravenshaugh,” her mother continued eagerly, “he is here this evening. I spotted him not a quarter of an hour ago, near the east gallery. He looks remarkably well, considering his grief.”
“Grief is not so easily shed,” Julian muttered.
“No,” Lady Brentwood agreed, “but time softens even the sharpest sorrow. And a household does require a mistress, after all.”
Lucinda stiffened slightly. “Not every household.”
Lady Brentwood smiled indulgently. “My dear, you have always possessed such romantic notions. But practicality must prevail.”
“I am not impractical,” Lucinda insisted quietly. “Merely unwilling.”
Lady Brentwood waved this aside. “You must at least meet him. He is precisely the sort of gentleman a young lady in your position ought to consider. A duke, Lucinda. Think of our status.”
“I have no desire to think of such matters,” Lucinda replied, her lips flattening into a line. “I am content where I stand.”
“Contentment has no progress,” her mother said.
“Nor does ambition,” Lucinda snipped back.
Lady Brentwood’s smile tightened. “You will dance with him.”
“I will not,” Lucinda stood firm.
Lady Brentwood leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You will not embarrass me in public.”
Lucinda met her gaze steadily. “I will not betray myself in public either.”
Phoebe shifted slightly, clearly resisting the urge to intervene. Julian’s jaw tightened, though he remained silent.
“There,” Lady Brentwood said suddenly, her gaze darting over Lucinda’s shoulder. “I believe I see him now.”
Before Lucinda could protest, her mother’s hand closed around her wrist with surprising firmness.
“Mother!” Lucinda said, startled. “Please.”
“Come, my dear,” Lady Brentwood insisted, already guiding her forward. “This is an opportunity that must not be squandered.”
Lucinda glanced desperately toward Julian and Phoebe, but her mother’s grip was unyielding. They had taken only a few steps when Lucinda’s heart sank even further—Lord Ashcombe was approaching.
“Lady Lucinda,” he said, bowing. “I trust you have recovered from your need for air.”
Lucinda froze, caught between her mother’s determined pull and Lord Ashcombe’s advancing presence.
“Lord Ashcombe,” Lady Brentwood said, her smile courteous, though her eyes flicked briefly to him before returning to Lucinda. “We were just on our way to meet the Duke of Ravenshaugh.”
Lord Ashcombe’s brows lifted. “Indeed? Then I shall not detain you.”
“Please do not,” Lucinda said faintly.
Lord Ashcombe regarded her curiously. “You appear flushed.”
“Just a bit heated,” Lucinda muttered.
“Shall I escort you?” he asked.
“No,” Lucinda said with quickness.
Lady Brentwood tugged her arm again. “Lucinda.”
Lord Ashcombe stepped closer. “I insist.”
Lucinda felt something inside her snap in exhaustion. “I beg your pardon,” she said sharply, withdrawing her arm from her mother’s grasp. “I must excuse myself.”
Without waiting for either of them to respond, she turned and fled.
She navigated the corners of the ballroom with a certain kind of grace, her skirts lifted slightly to avoid the press of feet and silk. She heard her mother’s voice call after her, sharp with irritation, but she did not turn.
She passed through a side corridor, then another, following the fading promise of cooler air and quieter spaces. The sound of music faded behind her, replaced by the distant sea of voices and the soft rustle of curtains by an unseen breeze.
She reached a set of tall glass doors, half-open, and slipped through them into the night.
The gardens lay before her, illuminated by the glow of lanterns hung along gravel paths and nestled among flowering shrubs.
The scent of roses and jasmine drifted through the air, mingling with the cool sweetness of evening dew.
Lucinda paused just beyond the threshold, her chest heaving, her shoulders easing at last. The weight of the ballroom fell from her like a discarded cloak.
She took a few steps forward, the hem of her gown brushing against the damp grass, the sound of crickets rising around her, steady and rhythmic.
Walking along the path, her footsteps light, her thoughts were restless but less suffocating. She had no desire to be a duchess, no desire to be an opportunity, and no desire to be chosen merely because she was suitable.
She turned a corner, following the curve of the path, and nearly collided with a tall figure emerging from the shadows.