“Good. Lord Robert has moped long enough. I hope your presence will cheer him greatly.”
Speechless, Eloise stared at the duchess as Beth hid a laugh behind her hand, and Michael attempted to study a nearby Christmas decoration.
The duchess gave her children a dismissive wave. “Ignore them. They have no manners and are still young enough to believe that secrets in the family can be kept in the dark. Since Lord Robert has been freed from that odious woman, few conversations with him do not eventually involve your name. He is quite enamored of you. Enough that he is the reason I invited you.”
“I—I—” Eloise stopped and chewed her lower lip a moment, then straightened her shoulders. There was nothing normal about this conversation, and nothing, absolutely nothing, socially acceptable came to mind. But she would not stand there looking like a dolt. “I am also quite fond of him, Your Grace, even though it is not polite for me to say so. It is the truth that Lord Robert is a most remarkable man.”
“Ha!” The duchess looked with glee at Michael, then Beth. “I told you.” She looked at Eloise again. “It has become clear that my sons are drawn to women who speak their minds. Rose is as forthright as anyone I have ever met, and you are clearly a determined young woman. And Michael’s current paramour is downright sassy.”
Eloise glanced at Michael, whose face had turned an alluring scarlet.
“I’m sure, Your Grace, this is because they have you as a mother.”
Emalyn’s cackle of laughter turned a few heads and caused more than a few behind-the-hands whispers, but the duchess did not seem to notice. She started to speak again, but Beth entered the gap first.
“Mother, Lady Eloise should be allowed to mingle. And you do have other guests.”
Emalyn sniffed. “Yes, yes. Though none as much fun.” She smiled as Eloise gave a second curtsey. “We will speak later, my dear.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Eloise moved away, slipping in and out of a few clusters of people, only a few who greeted her politely. More of them stared at her hair or smirked at her dress. Finally, as the music for the first dance started, Eloise found a perch at the front of the room, near one of the dozens of elaborately decorated Christmas trees scattered about the space. The trees defied current Christmas trends, which Eloise suspected was precisely the point. She snagged a cup of lemonade and settled into observing the crowd—and searching for Robert.
The derisive looks the others gave her had been expected—she and Adrienne had purposely chosen a style of dress several years out of date, similar to the one the modiste had designed for Rose, Lady Newbury. Both women, it seemed, needed a higher waistline than was currently popular, and both had chosen to decorate their gowns with few ribbons and frills. The gowns that swirled through the first dance, a quadrille, had shirt-style bodices with slender waists and long sleeves puffed at the shoulder. Ostentatious trims decorated necklines and hemlines, accentuating the bright colors of orange, green, red, purple, and indigo. In a toast to “Sir Edmund,” Adrienne had garbed Eloise in azure and gold, while Rose wore a more dignified crimson and cream. The bulges beneath their higher waistlines were still slight but would have been all too prominent with a lower, tighter profile.
Eloise had almost cheered aloud when one of Robert’s letters from the box had revealed that Rose was with child, although he had cryptically concluded that “all was well again” between his brother and sister-in-law.
The Kennets, it seemed, were a complicated family.
Eloise let her gaze roam over the long narrow room, which blazed bright from the overhead chandeliers and endless wall sconces. The ornate ceiling that arched overhead had long skylights in it, the glass reflecting the endless candlelight even more. Ribbon-tied boughs of holly, mistletoe, fir, ivy, and laurel covered every possible surface and draped from the sconces, filling the air with their pungent fragrance. Along one wall, a table offered small sweets and tidy mince pies. In the center sat a manger-shaped mince pie, which would be part of the massive supper served after midnight, when the yule log waiting in the massive fireplace in the west wall would be lit.
The theme of the ball—Christmases from around the world—was represented by a dozen or more Christmas trees decorated as cultures did in a variety of countries. Although trees as a Christmas decoration were more notable in other countries than in Britain, the Kennets had always incorporated something of their German ancestry in the ball. A live nativity scene filled one corner, and the orchestra’s conductor occasionally turned and tossed a small, wrapped gift into the crush of dancers, causing squeals to erupt as young women ripped open small boxes of perfume, creams, bangles, or ribbons.
Eloise had never attended one of the Kennet Christmas balls, although they were annual events, the highlight of an ongoing house party that lasted more than a fortnight and culminated with a Twelfth Night wassail, when all guests trouped into the local village and adjacent forest to sing carols, drink copious amounts of wassail, and mummer to their hearts’ delight. Eloise’s invitation had not included those activities, so her hired carriage was set to carry her back to London tonight, where she had been staying with Adrienne the past two days. Then she would return to her aunt’s until the New Year. That would give her time to pack all her belongings and move into the rooms over a shop two doors away from Adrienne’s—a shop that was now the storefront office of “E. Surrey. Business Management and Accounting.”
Since making the discovery about the confiscated missives, Eloise had made her peace with what this move would cost her. Sink or swim, she would not be sequestered and hidden any longer.
As the first dance ended, and the dancers regrouped for a reel, she felt someone move in beside her and saw a flash of crimson and cream at her side. “Lady Newbury,” she said quietly.
After a pause, Rose spoke. “Even after five months, I cannot get used to people calling me that.”
Eloise smiled as she turned to her friend. “Here’s hoping that you will be that for many years to come.” She glanced briefly at Rose’s skirt. “How are you feeling?”
Rose took a deep breath. “Physically well. I think I felt the baby quickening. Otherwise, terrified.”
Eloise understood. Rose had been told she could never carry a child due to damage done to her years ago in an assault, much less tolerate the birth. “So the doctor still will not say—”
Rose shook her head, then reached out to touch Eloise’s arm. “We will need to speak later. But I’ve been sent to fetch you.”
“Fetch me?”
“The duke would like to see you in his study.” When Eloise’s eyes shot wide, Rose smiled. “I will be close. Do not worry.”
Eloise followed as Rose left the second-floor ballroom and went downstairs. She turned away from the entrance hall and headed down a corridor, which was guarded by two staunch-faced footmen. Obviously, guests did not have free run of the entire manor house.
At the third door on the right, Rose knocked once and waited. After a moment, a deep male voice called, “Enter,” and she ushered Eloise inside. Silently, Rose nodded, then backed out of the room and closed the door, leaving Eloise to face three men, their faces somber and drawn. Philip Ashton, the Duke of Kennet, who leaned against the end of his desk. Percival Surrey, the Earl of Pentney, stood in front of it. And Lord Robert Ashton, who stood near the far window of the room, his hands tightly clutching the top of a wingback chair.
They stared at her, and she returned it as an excruciating weight settled on her shoulders and chest, and she struggled to remain composed, to breathe evenly. Anger with her father warred with her joy at seeing Robert, and her dismay at the scarring on his face fogged her emotions even further. The presence of the duke, however, had an odd calming sensation on her. He looked fierce, with his height and piercing eyes, but he seemed relaxed. Surely her father would not scold and ridicule her in front of this man. She entwined her gloved fingers—which had gone starkly cold—into the folds of her skirt and she took a deep, steadying breath as she dipped in a slight curtsey. “Your Grace. You wished to see me.”
