Before she could respond to that, he handed her off to a different partner. She smiled up at Mr. Pennyworth and responded demurely to his idle conversation, while at the same time trying to rein in her spiraling thoughts.
Ravenmore is the name of the painter.What did that mean? She’d never heard that title before, and she hadDebrett’s Peeragememorized, to better guide Angelica in her choice of suitor.
When she finally returned to the viscount’s arms, she was bursting with questions. Unfortunately, every time she tried to bring it up, he stopped her with a pointed question about the weather, her sister, or the refreshments. Then it was too late, and he handed her off to the next man in the set.
She had only a moment to school her features before realizing whose arms she was in.
The Duke of Canterbury.
Beady, brown eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she was afraid he would step away, leaving her floundering. But then he sniffed and roughly grasped her hand.
“So, girl,” he said after they had completed half a rotation. “What manner of gift might sway your sister’s affection?”
She swallowed the instinctual, crass response that flew to her tongue and instead smiled prettily. It was tempting to lead the man astray and suggest he buy a bouquet of violets, but that would only punish Angelica when she broke out into hives.
“Red roses, my lord,” she said instead. “The color suits her golden hair.”
“Roses? Yes, a splendid idea,” the duke said. He lifted his hand from her for a moment to scratch his thick neck with his black-gloved hand. “Perhaps you are not so useless, after all. If you can keep this up, you might yet find a husband.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and narrowed his eyes. “Unless you’ve already spread your legs for the viscount?”
Her cheeks burned, and she could not find the words to form a response. She’d met a fair number of uncouth individuals, but no one had ever spoken to her so crudely. As the music faded, Lord Briarwood came to her side like an angel of grace, taking her hand and placing it on his arm.
“Lord Canterbury? If I may?” he asked the uncivilized man.
“Of course.” The duke had the audacity to raise a brow at Saffron and chuckle, as if the viscount’s arrival proved his point.
Saffron refused to meet his gaze. She feared if she did, she might not be able to hold her tongue. Thankfully, Briarwood did nothing more than offer the duke a stiff smile before he whisked her out of the crowd.
“What did he say to you?” he asked. “You looked like you were going to faint, or scream.”
She shook her head. “I could not possibly repeat it.”
“I apologize for leaving you,” he said, his words tight.
The buzzing inside her intensified, and she had to concentrate on taking each step without stumbling.
“You cannot remain by my side the entire night, my lord,” she said, with only a slight waver.
“I wish I could. Your company is far more pleasurable than that of anyone else here.”
She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. Did he really mean it? The man was an enigma, with the reputation of a rake but words that melted her heart. She remembered the beautiful woman who had kissed his cheek.
It is none of my concern whom he associates with.
She clung to the thought, refusing to acknowledge the trickle of jealousy that welled up and soured the back of her throat.
They were halfway across the room when a young woman in a fawn-colored gown crossed their path. She gave a sly smile and fluttered her fan. “Lord Briarwood, there you are. You owe me a dance.”
“As much as I would love to, Miss Tilson,” Briarwood replied, “it is stiflingly hot in here.”
The woman giggled. “Lady Jarvis is not known for her planning. But I enjoy the other pleasures she provides. Perhaps you would accompany me for a walk in the gardens. I hear there is a lovely pergola at the center of the maze. Very private.” She peered around the viscount. “But first, you simplymustdispose of that creature that clings to your coattails.”
The words peeled off the scabs of old wounds in Saffron’s heart, and the room spun. Beneath her gloves, her fingers were gritty where the sweat had dried, rubbing against her skin like rough stone.
“Excuse me.” She pushed away before hearing Briarwood’s response. “I need some air.”
She hurried out of the ballroom and onto the terrace. Once she was outside, she rushed down the ornate, curving staircase and around the side of the house, her heels first clicking against the smooth stone and then stamping on the stone walkway. Bulbous lanterns hung from the low branches of the trees, casting circles of sickly-yellow light on the ground.
She searched for a dark alcove where she could hide from the prying eyes of the guests and found it near the rear entrance to the house, beside a gurgling cherub fountain. Water bubbled out of the angelic figure’s pupil-less eyes and ran down its cheeks like tears.
