CHAPTER FOUR
Percival’s voice rang out through the dining hall, and Graham would not be surprised if every corner of the Smith residence could hear him.
He moved so animatedly that he almost sloshed his wine all over the lady who sat next to him with her husband, both of them watching him with wide eyes.
“And then he rode headfirst into the wall!” Percival crowed, laughing at his own tale. He sighed, shaking his head. “It is fortunate that Graham is dashing in looks, for his brains do him a disservice.”
“Percival.” Graham’s voice was sharp. “I think you have had enough wine, do you not?”
“Nonsense, cousin. I have plenty of stories, and they are not all regarding you.”
“Perhaps we should tell some about you,” Owen piped up. “Perhaps the one about your time in Farnworth stables, no?”
Further down the table, a young lady squeaked in response.
Graham did not need to think hard to make the connection, especially as Percival’s face flushed deeply, his mouth tightening in anger.
On the glass he held, his knuckles tightened, turning white.
Next to him, Amelia kept glancing over, clearly confused as to what the tension was, yet there was a gleam in her eye, as if part of her was entertained.
Graham leaned in closely. “I do not know if you can tell but my cousin is an endless thorn in my side that I only have the dishonour of enduring at these events. Otherwise, I am mercifully out of his space.”
Amelia stifled a laugh. “Did you truly ride into the wall because you did not know how to slow down?”
“No. I rode into the wall because a cousin of mine kept urging my horse on too hard when I was merely a boy learning to ride, so I did not entirely have control of the animal.” There was a twitch of annoyance on his face.
“I do hope you know how to stop one now,” Amelia teased.
“Indeed.”
“Lady Smith,” Percival spoke up, breaking through the din. “With so much lavender, you surely have traveled to Europe? A woman as worldly as yourself must have seen great cultures.”
“Oh, nephew, do not try to flatter me,” Lady Smith laughed. “I am too advanced in years to be influenced by my own affections.”
“I am her favourite nephew, of course,” Percival drawled, cocking his head at Graham. “Is that not correct?”
“I would not know as I am not our aunt,” Graham answered tersely.
Around them, conversation swirled, dancing over their heads as wine was drank and courses were eaten, yet Graham could not take his attention off his cousin who seemed determined on dominating the entire room.
He swallowed a mouthful of melancholy that lodged itself in his throat.
There were many reasons why he avoided events like this, and his cousin was one of them.
Pointedly, he looked at a pocket watch. From where she sat, his mother shook her head at him.
***
Lady Cassandra Kensington sat at the dining table in the Smith estate, her stomach tight with anger. She seethed so hard she could barely swallow the bite of food she had just placed on her tongue. Her eyes were fixed on the Duke of Blackthorn further down the table.
He sat with Miss Hawthorne, the drab, plain wallflower everybody passed by. Everybody did—so why had the duke given her his attention?
“There is a great number of eligible ladies present tonight,” Cassandra hissed to her best friend, Lady Beatrice Ashworth.
“Why would His Grace choose her? She is nothing but a mouse, scurrying through the feet of others to not be detected. I am surprised she even knew one dance step to the next. He must have led her well.”
“Cassandra,” Beatrice sighed. “Do not think too greatly of it. I am sure he has had to dance with one lady or another at other balls to save face.”
“He has never asked anybody, not since he came into his dukedom.” Her words were clipped.
“I am sure it means nothing.” Beatrice sighed as she looked at another couple. “Do you think Lord Owen looks rather happy talking to Lady Eleanor? I do not know why. He dances with plenty of girls. Why do you suppose he has chosen her to sit next to?”
“I am indifferent to your trifling jealousies, Beatrice. You must assist me in capturing the attention of the Duke.”
“They do look rather deep in conversation, do they not? He keeps on leaning into her.”
“The Duke and Miss Hawthorne?”
“No, Lord Owen and Lady Eleanor.”
“Beatrice, I am in a most distressing predicament! For Heaven’s sake, Lord Owen is merely engaged in conversation with another young lady, as he is oft to do. The Duke has requested the pleasure of Miss Hawthorne’s company for the dance.”
“Lord Owen danced with Lady Eleanor,” Beatrice muttered. Cassandra huffed, turning her attention from her friend.
“You know, Beatrice, I have a belief that many times you only care about yourself.” Cassandra gave her a scowl. “It is an unbecoming trait of yours.”
Her friend spluttered but said nothing, only sighing as she continued eating.
***
By the time Lady Smith announced that it was time for the ladies to go to the drawing room, while the men would go to the billiards room, Amelia could not help but feel a rush of relief.
Throughout the whole dinner, no matter how much she had tried to focus on Percival’s tales, she could not shake the sense of being watched.
Yet whenever she had sought the source of it, there had been nobody looking her way.
In the open doorway of the dining hall, Amelia paused, looking back at the duke.
There was a sense of parting that settled deep within her—something that ached in a strange way she had not before experienced. Something that made her worry that if they parted now she would not see him again.
“Amelia?” Eleanor beckoned, already walking past her.
With one last look at the duke, Amelia followed her friend from the dining room and down the hallway to the drawing room.
There, the ladies gathered, immediately breaking off into their groups that Amelia always found amusing to watch.
As a quiet lady at these events, she watched others intently.
She knew that Lady Herald favored the friendship of Lady Twickenham because she thought that her favor would heighten in society if she was seen as her equal.
She knew that Lady Johanna spoke loudly and falsely with Lady Morgan because she had danced with Lady Morgan’s brother, and found him an attractive match, and hoped to impress her potential sister-in-law.
But her people-watching was halted when Amelia’s mother came up behind her, drawing Eleanor and her to sit with her.
“You caught the eye of His Grace tonight, Amelia,” Eleanor gushed. “Is that not the most wonderful thing!”
“Indeed, it is,” Bernadette agreed on Amelia’s behalf, when she herself was silenced by her own confusion.
She forced her tongue to move, her voice to speak. “I… do not know how it happened. One moment I was seeking fresh air, for the ballroom was rather hot, and the next I was dancing.” She could not deny how exhilaration ran through her, a blush rising to her cheeks at the memory of his gaze.
“Heavens, the dowager duchess approaches, along with her daughter,” Bernadette whispered, brushing back an errant stray hair from her forehead. She rose to her feet, as did Eleanor and Amelia. They curtsied deeply. “Your Grace.”
“Lady Hawthorne, is it not?” The dowager duchess asked, pretty eyes blinking at Bernadette, who looked stricken for a moment.
It reminded Amelia that her mother once went through these dances—impressing those higher than herself, dancing with suitors, learning the proper ways to address a duke’s daughter or wife.
“It—it is, Your Grace.”
The dowager duchess looked askance at Amelia. “And this must be Miss Hawthorne, your eldest daughter, I hear?”
“My eldest of three, yes,” Amelia’s mother answered. “And her friend, Lady Eleanor Fairfax, the daughter of the Earl of Fairfax.”
“It is lovely to meet you both.” The dowager duchess held nothing of His Grace’s features, for where he’d had dark hair and eyes, both these women had similar shades of blonde curls and bright, blue eyes. “Miss Hawthorne, your dancing was most beautiful. I saw that you waltzed with my son.”
“I—I did, Your Grace,” she stammered. “He is a fine dancer indeed.”
“He has not danced in five years!” The younger lady next to the dowager duchess bubbled with excitement, her smile wide and happy. “My brother chose you! That is wonderful. You are so very lovely, Miss Hawthorne.”
“Daphne, do not chase the poor lady off with your energy,” the dowager duchess laughed. “Lady Hawthorne, would you care to sit with me over by that lovely painting of the merchant ship?”
Gracefully, the two ladies left, leaving the three of them alone.
Immediately, Daphne took Amelia’s mother’s vacated seat.
“You must tell me, is my brother a good dancer? I have often jested that time has stiffened his legs, but he seemed rather capable! Oh, I did believe something incredible would happen tonight, I could just sense it. He did not believe me, he never does, but of course that is so very typical of Graham.”
Graham, Amelia thought, tenderly dancing her mind’s touch over the two syllables.
“I…” she trailed off, her face flushing at the attention. “He danced wonderfully.”
“And did he say anything to you?” Daphne’s eagerness was palpable. Amelia exchanged a startled look with Eleanor before turning back to the duke’s sister.
“He… he was a man of few words.”
“Of course he is!” she laughed. “Graham barely speaks more than ten words at a time, even to his friend, Lord Owen. Lady Eleanor, you danced with him, did you not? What do you think of him?”
Amelia could only blink, grateful for the attention to be off her for a moment.
But as she glanced around the room, wondering if anybody noticed that Lady Daphne spoke to her, she met the gaze of Lady Cassandra, who glared at her, malice thick in her gaze.
Her head turned to Beatrice and the two whispered, looking right at Amelia.
A shiver went down her spine as she quickly turned her gaze away.