Half-hidden behind the fronds, Clara watched as Wykeham circulated through several clusters of men, a peacock in full preen—wide smile, shoulders pressed back, ever-present cane at his side. The cane seemed more affectation than necessity at first, then, as he approached the terrace doors at the rear of the ballroom, he stumbled, catching himself with it. He limped once, twice, then paused and seemed to catch his breath, a bit of concern on his face as he looked around.
But no one seemed to be watching, except Clara.
He turned then and saw her, their eyes meeting across the expanse of the ballroom. He hesitated, then one side of his mouth curled up, he bowed slightly toward her, and he pivoted, disappearing out the terrace doors.
Why should I be surprised that a duke has secrets?
Those long winter nights felt more and more like an inevitable but interminable nightmare.
The crowd surged around Clara, ebbing and flowing as the fern acted as a rock in a stream, guiding them away from her. Few noticed the red-headed lady shadowed by the tall plant, and she watched the next two dances, comparing herself with the waiflike debutantes, then the older sisters who mingled, some obviously desperate for a dance. Their gowns sparkled with jewels and beading, their hair pleasantly coiffed with flowers, pins, padded combs, or stylish caps. For the first time, Clara almost felt as if she fit in, and she smoothed her skirt with one hand.
Amazing what money could do.
But in the back of her head, she could hear the frantic anger in her father’s voice during their last row, the increasing frequency of his coughing bouts, and her mother’s stern warning just before they exited the carriage tonight: “The duke is your last chance. Do not foul this.”
They were hiding something from her, which was making them desperate. Whatever it was had caused this change in their attitudes toward her, and she fought the dread that lingered over the possibilities.
Clara sighed, which made her ribs ache, and tried to focus again on the duke and her competing eggs.
“Why are you hiding?”
Clara yelped, jerking away from the fern and turning toward the baritone voice that had sounded in her ear.
Michael Ashton grinned. “It took me forever to spot you behind this plant. You blend right into it.”
Clara looked around quickly, searching for her mother. Honora was nowhere in sight.
Michael also scanned the room. “For whom are we searching?”
“My moth—what are you doing here?” She lowered her voice. “I thought you were in Kent.”
His smile widened. “I have been. But back now. I’m in the process of stirring up some business.”
Business again.She was beginning to despise the very word. “How did you”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“get an invitation? I thought they were hard to come by.”
He bent toward her, matching her tone. “My brother may be disgraced, but my father is still a duke. And Blackwell cares less about Society’s vagaries than you might think.” He reached out and touched her dance card, fingering it almost affectionately. “You still have not answered the question. You should be dancing. Why are you hiding?”
“I—” Clara hesitated again, scouring the area around them. The clusters of nobles moved about, yet still no one seemed to pay them any mind.
Michael looked from the card to her, his dark eyes bright with glee. As usual, his evening kit was black on white, and his white waistcoat, entwined with black embroidered swirls, hugged his trim form. The handsome joy in his face urged her on, and she tried again. “New slippers. They—I am not used to them. Tripping again is a true risk.”
He tilted his head to one side, his gaze focusing on her feet. “Why do you have new—” His brows furrowed and his expression tightened as his eyes traveled from her hem up to her bodice, pausing slightly at her waist, then her décolletage, finally to her face. “You look—” He swallowed.
Clara closed her eyes waiting for another lie cloaked in a compliment.What would he come up with? Beautiful? Lovely?She let out a sigh.Thin?
“Trussed.”
Her eyes flew open. “I beg your pardon?Trussed?”
Michael pointed at the bodice. “Can you even breathe in that?”
Clara was not entirely sure whether to be insulted or relieved. She tried insulted first. “Lord Michael, I’ll have you know that one of the finest modistes—”
“Has she never fitted you before?”
No. Insulted was not working.“Of course, she has. She made my only gown for this season, the one you saw at the Aldermaston ball.”
“Which was lovely and fit you far more adequately.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean that was your only gown for this season? What, pray tell, is this monstrosity?”
