Oh, well.
Lavinia tried to keep her head up and concentrated on not embarrassing herself in some way. Plenty of jealous ladies would be glaring at her, finding fault with her hair, her face, her figure, her way of walking, herage, and of course, her lack of money.
She found herself thinking about Miss Bainbridge.
The woman in question was not a Society beauty, but that did not seem to matter in the slightest around a woman likeher. She was forthright, oozing confidence, with a way about her that made people quiet down and listen. And, of course, she was fabulously wealthy.Shewould never shift uncomfortably on the arm of a duke, longing to duck her head and avoid the stares levelled her way. She would keep her head up, eyes straight ahead, and enjoy the attention as her due.
Some of Lavinia’s awkwardness faded away as they filed in the dining room, with people finding their chairs.
“I never asked, Miss Brookford,” the duke said, pulling out a chair for her, “do you possess a variety of hobbies and interests? As it appears we shall be seated together and it would be delightful to discover some common ground between us.”
She sat, feeling a little more herself again. The duke’s sister was seated opposite and flashed her an encouraging smile and a wink.
“I’m afraid my pursuits aren’t particularly ladylike,” Lavinia said, wincing. “I like to be out of doors as much as possible.”
“It’s a healthy occupation. I am myself often closeted in my study, and it feels like such a waste of a fine day.”
“Oh, I agree. Rainy days are fine to spend inside – I enjoy reading, although nothing properlyimproving, you know – but on fine days, nothing suits me better than taking my horses out for a gallop. Are you fond of horse riding, your Grace?”
It was a simple enough question. It had never occurred to Lavinia that there could be any answer beyond yes.
To her surprise, though, the duke stiffened, the smile dropping from his face like a stone.
“No,” he said shortly. “No, I do not. More wine?”
Chapter Seven
He'd been too brusque, that was for certain. William had seen Miss Brookford flinch when he’d rudely informed her that he did not care for horse riding. His change of subject had been clumsy and fooled nobody. Thank heaven only she had heard it, although doubtless she would mention the conversation to others.
He felt eyes on him across the table, and didn’t need to look to know that it was Miss Bainbridge. Her expression, no doubt, would be impassive and unreadable as always, but there would be a flash of annoyance in her clear eyes. They had a bargain. Oh, the engagement, such as it was, would not become common knowledge for a while, but that didn’t matter.
I am a betrothed man, just about. I should have walked away from her. I should have said no.
Regret, it must be said, was a painful and inescapable thing.
Miss Bainbridge believed that she and William were to marry, sooner rather than later. So did the rest of Society, as a matter of fact, even if they didn’t know about the betrothal.
And then he went ahead and waltzed with an obscure spinster and escorted her into dinner.
Yes, this would be talked about a great deal, after tonight. William bit back a sigh. If only his mother hadn’t tried to force him to dance with that poor, exhausted girl. Miss Gillian looked tired, and he suspected this hour was much later than she was used to staying up.
And there were hours to go.
He glanced sideways at his companion. Miss Brookford was staring down at her plate, a frown between her brows. He hoped he hadn’t offended hertoomuch. She didn’t strike him as a woman who was easily offended.
“I believe your father has an interest in breeding horses,” he heard himself say. It was hard to feign interest in such a subject, but he was rewarded when Miss Brookford’s face lit up. “I assume that is where your love of horses came from?”
“Oh, yes! My favourite horse is Stepper, I bred him myself. He’s quite remarkable. Only last week, on a gallop across the hills, we…”
She launched into a story about her horse, about its credentials and breeding, speed and strength. William was not interested, of course, but he smiled politely. It was pleasant to see people lit up with interest, visibly happy to talk about their favourite subject. There was something about Miss Brookford, about her unselfconscious chatter, that made him want to keep listening.
She had a pleasant face, too. William was used to seeing pretty women – Society was full of beauties – but Miss Brookford’s features were intriguing in a way he had not encountered before.
“… something scared him, I think,” Miss Brookford was saying now. “Stepper doesn’t scare easily these days, but something darted across the path. A rabbit, perhaps? He reared up, and I had a hard time keeping my seat, I can tell you that.”
William’s throat tightened. Suddenly, he was plain old Lord William Willenshire again, eldest son to a duke, standing in front of a sweating, mincing beast of a horse, his father’s insults ringing in his ears.
“By God, William, you’ll mount that horse if it’s the last thing you do!”
