“Because I have half a mind to write to my father and ask that he have a word with your guardian. It is Lady Gillray, is it not? She should be looking out for you to protect you against the likes of him.”
Christine laughed aloud at the very idea. Blanche was speaking with characteristic earnest fervor, determined and convinced of her own righteousness. Christine thought of the look on Lady Gillray’s face if such a letter arrived.
“Lady Gillray is…” she considered her words, feeling too ashamed to admit her living conditions even to her closest friend, “not concerned about that.”
“I think she would be if she knew.”
“I am safe enough under Her Grace’s wing for now, am I not?” Christine said, smiling and hoping to dissuade her friend.
Before Blanche could answer the Dowager, as though summoned by being named, she overrode all the other voices. She stood on a box, helped by a footman to either side.
“Ladies and gentlemen, during dinner and before the fireworks which will…oh, bother! That was supposed to be a surprise. Never mind. Where was I? Oh yes… during dinner, only the ladies will keep their places. The gentlemen will spend precisely three minutes seated opposite and then move one seat to their right. By this means, I wish to ensure every gentleman becomes at least acquainted with every lady. It will begin with the ringing of the bell, and each subsequent ring will move our gentlemen on by one seat.”
Christine had time for a startled glance with Blanche before the Dowager Duchess’ voice was replaced by a tinkling bell. The gentlemen lined up and took their first seats. Christine thanked God she was not seated before Lord Bingley. She was introduced to a Marquis with a bold nose and a crooked smile. Then a Baronet who seemed a composition of circles, a face, a protruding lip, and a protruding stomach. Then an Earl withfoppishly flung blond hair and a chin lifted so high he seemed to be studying her from atop Mount Olympus.
Then came Lord Bingley. She had seen him coming, of course, drawing nearer chair by chair. Lady Martha was leaning forward, ignoring her companion to stare balefully at Christine.
“Your Grace,” Bingley said stridently, “as a betrothed man, surely, I should not be participating. It gains the ladies nothing to become acquainted with me.”
He was hovering opposite Christine, a hand on the back of the chair.
“Then let me take your place,” came a deep, growling voice.
The Wolf Duke cut several places and took the chair from Lord Bingley, swiping away the other man’s hand curtly. He sat opposite Christine, crossing his legs indolently.
“Well, Your Grace, this is hardly in the spirit of the game,” the Dowager Duchess protested.
“I think Lady Christine has found her level. You are right, George, let us remove ourselves and let the unattached ones get to know each other,” Lady Martha said, standing.
Lord Bingley stammered.
“Was that an insult aimed at me or Lady Christine?” the Duke asked, lazy eyes drifting to Lady Martha, lip curling.
“I offered no insult, Your Grace,” Lady Martha curtsied.
“Then you should sue your voice and your face too for defamation,” the Duke drawled.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I am often misunderstood, I find.”
“Then you should be clearer in your words,” Lord Bingley retorted.
The Dowager Duchess attempted to interject after each exclamation and was left with an open mouth each time, and nothing came out of it.
The Duke smirked. “I do not think you would wish that from me.”
Christine watched the exchange in amazement. Around them, silence broke only for whispers of commentary and editorializing. She felt that all eyes were upon her, felt her cheeks grow scarlet. But the only pair of eyes that touched her deeply were those of the man opposite her.
I think he is defending me! Verbally sparring with them to deflect attention from me. But if that is his plan, it is failing. He is bringing me more attention!
He did not look away from her as he spoke. His eyes had the depths of the ocean, the color of the sky after the sun had just disappeared below the horizon. There were such depths there. Christine had never felt such a compulsion to look and to keep looking. Such a compulsion to strive to discover the soul that lay beyond those windows.
In the flickering candlelight, he seemed a foreign prince. His cheeks were sharp and slanted, giving an exotic cast to his eyes. His lips were straight and unyielding, his jaw granite.
“Good evening. I am Lady Christine Davidson of Southbria,” Christine said, putting out her hand.
The Duke blinked before accepting it, rising from his seat to courteously kiss the back of her hand.
