Chapter 2
All the carriages came to a halt just outside the ballroom. A sea of people made their way inside to spend the evening amidst extravagant lighting, and music that has been rehearsed so much, it was no longer creative.
Alastair Montford, Duke of Ravenshaugh, made his way inside with his head bowed.
He thought of the relentless attention he was going to receive and the vain conversation he would likely be indulging in, almost making him turn back.
He stood just beyond the threshold and felt, at once, as though he had stepped not into a ballroom but into a tide.
His name was announced with ceremonial clarity, carried across many voices with the authority of rank and expectation. “His Grace, the Duke of Ravenshaugh.”
Alastair inclined his head, his posture precise, his expression composed. His coat was of dark blue superfine wool, with silver buttons.
His boots shone, his gloves pristine. His hair, dark as the northern hills in shadow, was neatly brushed back from his brow, revealing a face marked by thought. His eyes were grey, steady, observant, and carried a weight that did not belong to a man of his age.
He entered the room as one accustomed to commanding attention, aware immediately of the whispers.
“That is him.”
“The duke.”
“Ravenshaugh .”
“Widowed.”
“He has returned.”
“...Looking for a wife.”
The words reached him, tightening the air around him, as though the room itself leaned toward him with intention.
He moved forward, accepting nods and bows with quiet civility, responding when addressed, offering polite remarks where required. His manner was reserved, sculpted by habit.
“Your Grace,” said Lady Penrose, curtsying with exaggerated elegance. “We are honored by your presence.”
“The honor is mine, madam,” Alastair replied, his tone courteous.
“And may I say,” she continued, smiling, “it has been far too long since we have seen you in town.”
“Circumstances have been… pressing,” he said.
“How fortunate, then, that they have yielded,” she said, her gaze flicking, ever so subtly, toward her daughters, who hovered nearby in gowns of pale silk and hopeful expressions. “London has missed you.”
Alastair inclined his head again. “You are kind.”
He was introduced to others in rapid succession: a baroness, eager and voluble; a viscount, affable and loud; a matron, with an expression that held calculation beneath civility; a young lady who blushed at his address and scarcely managed a reply.
“Your Grace,” said Lord Harrington, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “I trust the north has not turned you feral.”
Alastair permitted himself a faint smile. “I assure you, the wolves are better mannered than most men.”
Harrington laughed. “You have not changed.”
“I’m not certain whether that is praise,” Alastair replied.
He attempted, as he had resolved, to be sociable.
He asked after families, commenting upon the weather. He offered polite admiration of gowns and the musicians. He stood through dances, responding when spoken to, withdrawing when the conversation waned.
Yet with every exchange, he felt the same sensation deepen, an awareness of being observed not as a man, but as a prospect.
He could feel it in the questions.
“You have been in Scotland, I hear.”
“Indeed.”
“And do you find yourself pleased to be among us once more?”
“I am pleased to see familiar faces.”
“And have you found London much changed?”
“It is as I remember.”
“And are you… content, Your Grace?”
Content.
He answered it with politeness rather than truth. “I am well,” he said.
They asked about his estate, about his household, about his future. Each inquiry felt less like curiosity and more like assessment, as though his life had become a ledger to be examined and balanced.
He found himself the focus of an audience he had not sought. Mothers watched him with bright, appraising eyes as daughters hovered, drawn forward by subtle encouragement, their glances quick and hopeful, their smiles careful.
He did not resent them. He understood their purpose. What he resented was the feeling that he had become a solution.
He attempted, briefly, to dance. A young lady, Miss Fairchild, had approached him with a curtsy.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice scarcely above a whisper, “might I beg the honor of this set?”
He hesitated, then inclined his head. “If you wish, Miss.”
She smiled, her relief evident. “Thank you.”
They took their places among the dancers, and the music resumed. The steps were familiar and the rhythm predictable. Alastair executed them with care, ensuring his partner was at ease, adjusting his pace to hers.
“You dance very well, Your Grace,” she murmured.
“I have had practice,” he replied.
“I have never danced with a duke before,” she said, her cheeks coloring.
“Then I hope the experience proves agreeable.”
“It is… most agreeable,” she replied, though her voice trembled.
He nodded politely.
The dance ended. He bowed and she curtsied.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said.
“Thank you, Miss Fairchild” he replied.
He stepped away and realized it was not the dance itself that exhausted him but the awareness of purpose that accompanied every glance, every word, and every introduction.
He had come with the intention to engage. He had resolved, before leaving his townhouse that evening, that he would not allow himself to withdraw.
He found himself retreating to the edges of the room, standing near a column, then near the musicians, then beside a tall mirror framed in gilt. He observed his own reflection briefly, noting the lines at his brow, the shadows beneath his eyes.
He did not look like a man in search of a bride. He looked like a man whose cheekbones now hurt due to faux smiles.
He did not know if Lord Harrington found him first or if it was he who found the former, but he was speaking again with Lord Harrington.
“Have you seen the Countess of Northwick?” Harrington asked.
“I have not,” Alastair replied. “Why do you ask?”
“She is quite determined to introduce her youngest to you.”
“I am honored,” Alastair said as calmly as possible.
Harrington laughed. “You sound as though you are being marched to the gallows.”
Alastair did not answer.
A woman called Alastair out from behind. “Your Grace.”
He turned to speak with Lady Ashcombe. She had on a silk gown which was violet, getting darker as it fell down in waves, her curly hair was tightly restrained well above her forehead and her jewelry shimmered more than was the duke’s preferred taste.
“My daughters are quite eager to make your acquaintance,” she said, smiling brightly.
“I would be pleased to make their acquaintance," he replied flatly, hoping that the woman would catch how deeply displeased he would be to make their acquaintance.
“You must join us for supper,” she insisted. “It would be a pleasure.”
“I fear I have promised my attendance elsewhere,” he lied through his teeth.
“Ah! Another time, then,” she muttered, her disappointment carefully masked.
A dull pressure started pounding behind his temples. He felt irritated by the constant smiles, the repeated questions, the unspoken expectations that pressed against him like hands upon his back.
Even before grief had hollowed the spaces he once occupied, he had preferred the quiet of the hills, the steady rhythms of estate life, the measured company of those who spoke when they had something to say.
Here, conversation was currency and attention was commodity; he did not trade well in either.
He felt anger, too—a resentment of his own discomfort, at his own inability to pretend to be at ease when it was demanded of him.
He knew what the ladies of the ton would murmur about him—the Duke of Ravenshaugh is arrogant and unkind. They would not understand it was shyness, rather than aloofness, and aloofness invited scrutiny.
Before his feet led him to the doors attached to the adjoining salon, he made his apologies to Lord Harrington.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but I find myself in need of a moment’s air.”
“Of course,” Harrington replied. “Do not stray too far. There are many eager to speak with you.”
“I am certain,” Alastair said, though he felt no comfort in the assurance.
He moved again, his steps slower now, his attention dulled by repetition.
His patience thinned, his temper fraying at the edges, though he did his utmost to conceal it.
He crossed the threshold into the adjoining room, where the noise softened and the light dimmed, then continued onward, seeking quiet as one seeks water when parched.
He reached the tall glass doors that opened onto the gardens, stepping through them and into the night.
The air was cool, the scent of roses and damp earth rising gently around him. The sounds of the ballroom receded, replaced by the steady chorus of insects and the distant noise of the city beyond the walls.
His shoulders lifted as he drew a deep breath, then lowered as he released it. Walking along the path, his thoughts gradually settled, clarity seeping in.
Not for the last time, he wished he had not come. Yet he had.
The conversation that had taken place three days earlier, in the study at Ravenshaugh House appeared unbidden in his mind. Tobias Henslowe had stood before his desk, hands clasped behind his back, his expression grave, his posture rigid with duty.
“The accounts are dire, Your Grace,” he had said.
Alastair had leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled, his gaze fixed not upon Henslowe, but looking out the windows overlooking a courtyard long neglected. This his gaze settled upon the fire, which burned low in the grate.
“How dire?” he had asked.
Henslowe had hesitated, then spoken plainly. “The estate cannot sustain its current expenditures. The revenues have diminished, the repairs have mounted, and the debts accrued by the late duchess have not been fully resolved.”
Alastair’s jaw had tightened. “I was under the impression,” he had said, “that matters were stable.”