Chapter Thirty #2
Harriet felt a surge of alarm at the impending company, which she did her best to tamp down.
She wasn’t sure why she felt worried—the duke wouldn’t harm her, not here.
In fact, she felt silly thinking he would harm her anywhere.
But when she saw his gaze fall disdainfully on John, she knew the true source of her terror.
Men like the duke enjoyed inflicting harm with words as well as weapons, with facial expressions as easily as fists.
She might be safe enough, but John wasn’t.
“What are you doing here?” the duke spat out, as if even speaking to his son was beneath him.
“The same things as everyone else, I presume,” John intoned with, Harriet thought, convincing enough casualness. “Dancing, drinking, enjoying the company of another man’s wife.”
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” the duke asked, making it clear he would have liked to use the verb dying.
“You know, I found myself rather well rested. I thought I might take a quick break from resting. It was growing rather tiring.”
“I don’t know why you’re insisting on—”
“Being seen in public?”
Harriet felt the tension between the two of them rising as a heat in her sternum. She felt an acute sense of guilt at having exposed John to the presence of his father and to the curiosity and censure of the ton. She needed to do something.
“Your Grace, you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve been taking those dance lessons you prescribed. Unhappily, I am not as quick a study as Lord Weston here; he is elegance itself, which I’m sure Miss Holmes will attest to.”
The maneuver bordered on crass. To even subtly suggest another couple dance together? She was certain the duke found it unseemly, which hardly fazed Harriet.
However, he wasn’t so improper as to contradict her. Instead, he simply nodded and released his mistress’s arm, offering her up to his son. Harriet smiled innocently at her father-in-law, waiting for him to understand that he ought to ask her to dance. Which he reluctantly did.
She wasn’t looking forward to any time with the man, but a simple quadrille couldn’t hurt much, and besides, he was the one who touted the importance of her learning to dance. It was a small price to pay for John’s comfort. Or at least to keep his father at bay for a few minutes.
How much more time could one spend in a garden?
Alexander hadn’t taken in a single rose or lilac or …
well, he didn’t know the names of the other flowers planted there.
He wasn’t in the garden for greenery anyway.
He was there to avoid making a fool of himself.
Watching Harriet fuss over his brother at the refreshment table had been survivable, even if—for the first time in his life—he found himself wishing to take his brother’s place.
Truly, seeing the two people he cared for most in the world together filled him with arrant joy.
No, the problem was once they made it on the dance floor.
Harriet didn’t dance. Not like that, at least. It had undone him.
She was utterly captivating. Had she known what she was doing to him, to the entire crowd, she would have blushed from tip to toe.
He wondered who’d had the good fortune and immeasurable patience to teach her.
Yet, despite his admiration, he found himself longing for the Harriet who’d danced so poorly at the inn.
The last strains of the song came through the open balcony doors. Alexander waited for another five minutes for good measure and then headed back inside, determined to talk to his wife now that his arousal had sufficiently abated.
Dear God! Was she to dance with every member of his family?
The sight of Harriet in John’s arms, their obvious closeness, had been heartwarming.
Harriet dancing with his father was, on the contrary, bone-chilling.
He couldn’t help but feel that the duke’s presence was sullying her.
Alexander fought the urge to force his way into the dance, to replace his father, consequences be damned.
Instead, he hung along the wall, thinking wryly that their roles had been reversed.
He, the wallflower, she, the nonpareil of the dance floor.
Next to him, taking advantage of his unusually fixed position, a woman sidled up.
Lady Throckmartin. She was married to a much older, gout-riddled man, who was known to be cruel when he bothered to be awake.
Their time together last year was enjoyable if infrequent.
She was staid and remote, as was fashionable, though he knew her tastes in the bedroom to be quite different from her public mien.
“Lord Alexander,” she said, nodding simply and keeping herself facing the same direction.
“Lady Throckmartin,” he replied, wishing desperately he’d timed his garden exit more carefully. How long were songs meant to last these days?
“I heard you married while I was away.”
“I did,” he answered, unfocused on making polite conversation, his eyes trained on Harriet and his father. He couldn’t miss the end of the song. There was no telling who might claim Harriet’s attention next.
“I would express disappointment, although I can’t imagine this would alter your course.” She leaned in then, whispering in his ear, “We’ve never let a spouse get in the way of a good time.”
At that moment, Harriet looked across the room. Alexander watched in horror as her eyes slid over to his conversation partner. God, how he wished to see a flash of anger or jealousy. Her eyes didn’t even register surprise.
He turned decisively then, and with an unprecedented lack of remorse, replied, “On the contrary, Lady Throckmartin. I find myself wholly uninterested in entertaining the company of anyone who isn’t my wife, if you catch my meaning.
Please excuse me.” He only hoped she’d pass the information around widely.
With that, he strode across the ballroom, hoping to finally get what he’d so fervently wished for this past month: an audience with his wife.