Michael returned to the beverage table and picked up another cup of lemonade—the burning in his gut a deep craving for something stronger—but he set it down again. If he took even one more sip of that swill, he would likely cast up his accounts before he made it out of the ballroom. Instead he wandered closer to one of the potted trees festooned with paper lanterns that populated the edges of the dance floor. The Duchess of Aldermaston had chosen an Eastern Asian theme for the evening, with decorations based on popular knowledge and assumptions about China and Japan covering every surface.
Dodging one of the lower-hanging lanterns, Michael turned his attention to the dancers, to the complicated—at least to him—steps of a Scotch reel. The adept dancers pranced through the routine, their faces glowing with the effort. The young debutantes mostly looked thrilled to be on the floor with their partners, the men less so. What an odd ritual, Michael thought, this series of balls and soirees with the idea of finding a spouse. Like birds on the hunt for a mate, the men preened and sought out the women most likely to produce healthy children and a substantial dowry. Love was not part of the game, as Society’s “Marriage Mart” was far more about legacy and dynasty than affection. Essentially the women went to the highest bidder.
His stomach churned, and he squelched a belch.
“Ashton.”
Michael turned, surprised to see Ludlow Barstable, the Marquess of Aldermaston, at his elbow. “Aldermaston.” He gestured toward the dancers. “Your mother has presented an outstanding evening of entertainment.”
Aldermaston’s mouth twitched. “Society chitchat does not become you.”
“I admit I am woefully out of practice.”
“I understand Lady Elizabeth is aiding you in this endeavor.”
“She is, although I’m afraid she has not made much progress.”
“This is why you are not dancing?”
“That, and the fact that I doubt any of these lovely women would accept an invitation from me. At least not tonight.”
“Ah. Your brother.”
“Robert’s—um—difficulties do seem to have affected our reception tonight.”
Aldermaston fell silent, and his eyes narrowed as he scanned the room. Michael understood, disappointment for his sister sinking in. “So, Aldermaston. Not just tonight.”
The look in the marquess’ eyes turned sharp for a moment, then sorrowful. “I’m afraid so. I will speak with Kennet tomorrow about our arrangement.”
“You have not told Lady Elizabeth?”
Aldermaston shook his head. “I intend to after our next dance. I’m telling you so that you will be prepared to take her home.”
“So there is no hope if you wait—”
“I’m afraid not. My father is being... absolute about this—what the devil?” Aldermaston’s gaze shot over Michael’s shoulder.
Michael turned to see Beth and Lady Clara Durham nearing the foot of the steps leading down into the ballroom. His breath caught at the sight of Lady Clara, who was stunning—resplendent—in a white silk gown trimmed with emerald-green satin. The tapered skirt flared at the base, anchored by a wide, heavy border of embroidered ivy vines. The tabbed bodice, with a V-point over her breasts, had a faux front-lacing of green ribbon. Her sleeves echoed the hem with the look of slashed sleeves through which emerald silk peeked. Her hair, which had been wrestled into intertwining braids woven with matching satin ribbons, was festooned with daisies. A simple gold necklace with an emerald pendant matched her earrings. White satin gloves and slippers completed her attire. She looked young and angelic, and Michael’s heart pounded at the sight of her.
But his chest tightened when he realized what had alarmed Aldermaston. A cluster of young people had stopped them near the last step, blocking the ladies’ path, and Michael realized the conversation had turned ugly. Aldermaston headed toward the group, and Michael followed, their long strides covering the room in a few seconds. An unexpected rage surged up through him, the need to protect Lady Clara almost consuming him.
They closed in just as one of the young men pretended to stumble, dumping a full cup of lemonade down the front of Lady Clara’s white dress. Aghast, she staggered to one side and bumped into Beth, who tried to steady her. The young man, however, was having none of it, and pushed Clara’s shoulder, causing her to lose her balance on the step and fall forward.
Michael caught her by the arms, almost lifting her off the ground as he set her aright. She stared up at him, those brilliant green eyes edged with tears.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly.
She nodded and mouthed,Thank you.
He turned on the young man, advancing toward the group.
The man smirked, his face a mask of disdain. “Clumsy oaf!” he called toward Lady Clara. “She should not be allowed anywhere near a ballroom.” But his eyes widened as Michael stepped in and grabbed the man’s cravat in one hand, twisting it and lifting the man up on his toes.
“Ashton!” The man wheezed.
Michael towered over the slighter man and clutched the man’s bicep with his other hand. As he tightened his grip on the cravat, he felt the man’s toes leave the floor. He put his face close and hissed, “You are a bully and a cad who just insulted a lady of theton. You will be lucky if no one calls you out on this.”
“Ashton.” Aldermaston put a hand on Michael’s forearm. “Enough. The boy is a fool.”
