Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
“Your Grace!” a woman’s voice called out.
Augusta turned and watched as a cluster of ladies made their way through the ballroom with the unmistakable air of women on a mission.
They moved as one entity, their heads bent close together in whispered consultation, their eyes fixed on a single target: Hudson, who stood a couple of feet away from her, apparently unaware of the approaching horde.
They were a study in deliberate prettiness, dressed in gowns of pale blue and cream and the shade of pink that Augusta had once heard a modiste describe as “virginal blush.”
Augusta instinctively stepped back, her shoulder blades pressing against the wall behind the refreshments table. It was an old habit: the ability to make herself smaller, less visible, to fade into the background when important people entered a room.
Cassie, thankfully, remained at her side, one hand wrapped firmly around her wrist as she finished the last of her lemonade.
The ladies reached Hudson en masse, surrounding him.
One of the ladies laid a hand on his arm. “Your Grace,” she said, her voice carrying just far enough to be overheard, “you simply must tell us what you think of Lady Jersey’s upcoming musicale. We’re all dying to know whether you plan to attend.”
The woman to her right leaned closer. “We’ve missed you terribly at these events, Your Grace. It’s been ages since we’ve had the pleasure of your company.”
A third lady giggled. “And we were just saying how delightful it is to see Lady Cassandra looking so well. She’s grown so much since Christmas! Why, she’s nearly a young lady already.”
“Indeed,” the fourth lady agreed. “Though I must say, she takes after her mother more with each passing day. Don’t you agree, Your Grace? The resemblance is quite remarkable.”
Hudson merely lifted an eyebrow. “My sister is very much her own person,” he said, his voice even. “As was my mother.”
An awkward silence fell over them.
The ladies exchanged glances before the blonde lady recovered first.
“Of course,” she said. “What we meant to say was…”
But Augusta was no longer listening. She had just noticed what happened when Hudson turned to accept a glass of champagne from a passing footman: the way the ladies’ smiles slipped, the momentary curl of the youngest one’s lip, the almost imperceptible shudder from the brunette as Cassie, drawn by the sound of her name, stepped forward.
“You have a smudge, Lady Cassandra,” the brunette murmured, her voice pitched low enough so that Hudson did not hear.
She reached for Cassie’s face with a handkerchief that might as well have been dipped in acid, given the expression of distaste that accompanied the gesture.
“Right there on your cheek. Chocolate, I imagine.”
Cassie ducked away from the proffered cloth. “It’s not chocolate,” she said, her chin lifting in a gesture so like her brother that Augusta felt a surge of pride. “It’s a beauty mark. Miss Norton says they’re perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of.”
The ladies exchanged another glance, this one laden with amusement that stopped just short of mockery.
“Of course they are, dear,” the blonde lady said. “Now, run along and find your governess. I’m sure she’s wondering where you’ve gotten to.”
“I’m right here,” Augusta interjected, stepping forward before she could stop herself.
Four pairs of eyes swiveled toward her, four expressions carefully rearranged into something approximating pleasant surprise.
“Miss Norton,” Hudson said, his voice warming fractionally. “I was just telling the ladies here about Cassie’s enthusiasm for the balloon exhibition.”
“And we were just saying,” the heart-faced lady added quickly, “how delightful it is to see Lady Cassandra enjoying the ball. Children bring such… freshness to these events.”
“Indeed,” the brunette agreed. “Though I imagine you must find it quite exhausting, Miss Norton. Children can be so… demanding.”
The implied criticism hung in the air between them.
Augusta felt her cheeks warm but kept her expression neutral. “Lady Cassandra is remarkably undemanding,” she declared. “A credit to her upbringing.”
Hudson’s mouth twitched at the corner.
“I believe,” he said, “that the next set is starting. Lady Cecilia, would you do me the honor?”
Lady Cecilia beamed with triumph. “I would be delighted, Your Grace.”
But before she could take his proffered arm, Cassie’s face fell. “You’re dancing again?” she asked, her voice small. “But you’ve already danced three times. And you promised you’d dance with me.”
An awkward silence descended. The ladies exchanged glances of derision.
“Children,” the brunette murmured to the heart-faced lady, “have absolutely no sense of occasion.”
“They require constant supervision,” the heart-faced lady agreed. “So exhausting for the staff.”
Cassie’s lower lip began to tremble. Her eyes, fixed on her brother’s face, welled with tears that she was clearly fighting to hold back.
Before Hudson could respond, a cheerful voice came from behind.
“I believe,” James materialized at Cassie’s side, “that I have just been granted a reprieve from dancing with Lady Jersey’s niece, who has twice my feet and half my sense of rhythm.
And I find myself in dire need of a partner who can actually count to three.
Lady Cassandra, would you do me the honor? ”
Cassie’s face lit up. “Really?” she asked, her voice rising with excitement. “You want to dance with me?”
“I insist on it,” James said gravely. “The fate of my evening—nay, my entire social standing—hangs in the balance. Without your assistance, I shall be forced to stand in the corner wearing a sign that reads ‘Social Failure.’”
Cassie giggled. “There’s no such thing.”
“I assure you, there is. My mother had one made after my disastrous performance at Lady Ashford’s musicale. ‘My Son Cannot Tell a Minuet from a Mousetrap,’ it read. Most humiliating.”
That coaxed a laugh from the entire group, even the ladies, who seemed torn between amusement and the suspicion that they were the butt of some private joke.
“Well,” Cassie said, slipping her hand into James’s with the easy confidence of a child who had never been taught to doubt her welcome, “we can’t have that. Miss Norton says it’s important to help others whenever we can.” She turned to Augusta. “May I, please? Just one dance?”
Augusta nodded, unable to keep from smiling at the girl’s enthusiasm. “Of course. But remember your promise: one dance, then bed.”
“One dance,” Cassie agreed. “I’ll be the best-behaved partner in the entire ballroom. You’ll see.”
James bowed with a flourish. “Shall we, My Lady?”
They moved away together, Cassie’s hand tucked confidently into his elbow, her head tilted back as she listened to whatever outrageous story he was telling her.
Augusta watched them go, a strange ache forming beneath her ribs.
“Enjoy your dance, Your Grace,” she said, stepping back. “I believe Lady Cecilia is waiting.”
She retreated to her position by the wall as she tracked Cassie’s progress across the dance floor. The girl was radiant as James led her through the steps of a country dance, his movements deliberately exaggerated to make her laugh.
The music swelled, then faded as the dance came to an end.
James bowed with theatrical flourish, earning another giggle from Cassie, who bobbed her own curtsy with remarkable grace for a child of eleven.
They moved together toward the refreshments table, James’s hand resting lightly on her shoulder in a gesture that was both protective and companionable.
Augusta allowed herself a small smile. Perhaps she might slip away for just a moment. Long enough to visit the retiring room, to splash cool water on her wrists, to steal a few precious seconds of solitude in an evening that had thus far offered none.
She set her champagne glass on a passing tray and began making her way toward the door, keeping to the edges of the ballroom where the crowd was thinnest.
She had nearly reached the corridor when a voice stopped her. A woman’s voice, pitched low but carrying clearly in the momentary lull between sets.
“… absolutely shocking,” the voice was saying. “Three wives, all dead. And the daughters sent away, packed off to relatives. I ask you, what sort of man does that to his own children?”
Augusta froze, her hand extended toward the doorknob.
“A monster,” a masculine voice replied. “Though I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. Whitfield always was a cold one.”
Augusta’s hand dropped to her side. Her mouth had gone dry, her heart hammering against her ribs with enough force that she was certain the entire ballroom could hear it.
“I heard,” the man added, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur that forced Augusta to lean closer to hear, “that the oldest daughter disappeared. Sent away to a relative in the north. The younger one, too. Packed off to different households, as though Whitfield couldn’t bear the sight of them. ”
“The poor things,” the woman tutted. “To lose their mothers, then be separated from each other. It doesn’t bear thinking about.
Though I suppose they’re better off now.
Whitfield’s in Newgate, after all. Life sentence.
And from what I hear, the estate’s been seized and sold to pay off his debts.
The girls will have nothing to return to, even if they wanted to. ”
“Perhaps it’s for the best,” the man said.
Though she could hear nothing more, on account of the blood rushing to her ears, Augusta remained where she was, one hand pressed against the wall to steady herself, the other curled into a fist at her side.
Her life, her family, had become nothing more than a topic discussed over champagne and canapés with the casual interest usually reserved for theatrical performances or particularly scandalous novels.
She needed air. Now. Before the walls closed in any further, before the weight of their knowing stares became too heavy to bear.
She pushed away from the wall and slipped through the door, not caring that her departure might be remarked upon, not stopping when a footman called after her to ask if she required assistance.
The corridor stretched before her, mercifully empty. She walked quickly, her slippers silent on the carpet, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that burned her lungs.
At the end of the corridor, the doors stood slightly ajar. Augusta made for them without hesitation, pushing through into the darkness beyond.
The night air cooled her burning cheeks and filled her lungs with the scent of roses and freshly turned earth. Gradually, her breathing slowed, and her heart ceased its frantic hammering against her ribs.
She reached the bench and sank onto it, her legs suddenly too weak to support her.
She was not certain how long she had been sitting there when a sound broke the silence.
She froze, her hand flying to her throat where her mother’s locket usually lay hidden beneath her bodice.
She had left it in her room tonight, not wanting to risk losing it among so many strangers.
Now she regretted the decision fiercely, her fingers closing on empty air where the familiar weight should have been.
“Miss Norton?”
Augusta breathed out a sigh of relief upon recognizing Hudson’s voice.
“Your Grace,” she said, grateful that her voice was steady. “I didn’t expect… That is, I thought you would be dancing.”
“I was,” he said. He had stopped a few paces away, a darker shadow among shadows, his face half-visible in the moonlight. “Until I noticed you’d left the ballroom. Rather abruptly.”
“I’m grateful for your concern, Your Grace,” she allowed, her voice carefully formal. “But I’m quite capable of managing my own affairs. You should return to the ball. Your guests will be wondering where you’ve gone off to. I should go back, too.” She started to rise. “Cassie will be—”
“Cassie,” Hudson interrupted, his hand settling on her wrist, “is currently attempting to convince James that dogs should be allowed at formal dinners. I believe the debate will occupy them for at least another quarter-hour.”
His thumb moved, a single stroke against the pulse point at her wrist.
“Are you all right, Augusta?” he asked softly.
Augusta was acutely aware of the warmth of his palm, the slight roughness of his skin, the way his thumb moved in a small, unconscious circle against her wrist.
She should pull away. Should step back. Should reestablish the proper distance between employer and employee, between duke and governess, between the man who had given her shelter and the woman who had no right to want more.
Instead, she stood perfectly still, her hand in his, her eyes on his face. And wondered what would happen if, just for once, she took what she wanted rather than what she was offered.