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Her first ball in nearly four years and Livvie was not huddling in a corner, bleeding from a multitude of cuts as she had always imagined. The countess of Blade was very popular, and invitations to her country parties, which were held before the opening of the little Season, were well sought after. Tonight’s ball was a crush. The gentlemen and ladies were dressed in the height of fashion, and the ballroom buzzed with laughter and inconsequential conversation.
Livvie’s mouth ached from keeping her smile bright. Everyone was pleasant, but she could see the questions and the recognition in their eyes. She was the girl whose father had killed himself. No lips uttered the damning truth but it was glaring that almost an hour had passed and no gentleman had asked for her hand to dance. The disgrace was never to be forgotten.
The countess had melted away with a shoo for Livvie to mingle, and she had found herself lingering on the edge of the ballroom with a glass of champagne in her hand, dearly wishing she was snuggled in her bed, reading In the Service of the Crown. She had left it at a particular rousing chapter, where Wrotham was seducing the Princess of France for highly classified secrets. Livvie had never read a seduction before and her nerves were quite titillated by the pages.
“The Duke and Duchess of Wolverton!” the butler’s booming voice announced.
There was a ripple of excitement from the throng as the duke entered with his beautiful duchess. They mingled and smiled, and Livvie wondered if she had ever seen a more beautiful and well-matched couple. The duke looked besotted, and he and his duchess fairly glowed.
“It’s the mad duke,” Francie whispered behind her.
“Francie!” Olivia smiled, relieved to see a familiar face. “Where were you?”
A blush heated her friend’s face, and Olivia noted her lips were a bit swollen. “Francie?”
She looped her hands through Livvie’s. “It’s the truth. That is what the ton calls him, you know.”
“You are disassembling. I have it on the highest authority that well-kissed lips do appear a bit swollen, as yours are at this moment.” Of course she would not admit the authority on kisses she referred to came from a fictional character in a book. “Unless a bee stung you?”
Francie’s cheeks bloomed pink. “We will certainly not talk about kisses here,” she said with a surreptitious glance across the ballroom. “However, we can discuss the mad duke, for everyone else is certainly doing so.”
“He looks quite sane to me.”
“And so very handsome. I’ve heard many young ladies cried when he was taken from the marriage mart.”
A very unlikely notion, but Livvie held her tongue. “If he was so desirable, why was he called the mad duke?”
“I have no notion,” her friend said with a giggle.
“Oh, Francie, you are hopeless, listening to such gossips.”
She arched a brow. “Does this mean you are not interested in a very juicy tidbit about the duke and his duchess?”
“No, I am not,” Livvie said firmly.
“Have I found something you insist on being proper about? Be still, my heart.”
She grinned. “Very well. You may tell me, but I shall not repeat a word of it.”
“They married a few months ago because she trapped him by climbing into his bed!”
She gasped. “Scandalous…and wonderful!”
“Indeed,” Francie said smugly.
Livvie watched the couple, admiring the duchess’s daring. Tobias approached, and from the fleeting grin and nod he bestowed on the duke, it was evident they were friends. “She is very beautiful…and from the way the duke touches her, I do not think he minded terribly that she compromised him,” she said softly.
“Oh no, from all accounts, he is love-struck with her, and she with him. Mamma says it is a good match.”
A good match. The very thing her mother and stepfather were depending on her to make, but Livvie was painfully aware no one had asked her to dance, even though she had been presented as the guest of honor. It would crush her mother to realize no gentleman would truly want her with the stain of her father’s weaknesses and her lack of fortune.
“Oh! Tobias is dancing,” Francie said, rousing Livvie from her musings.
She was about to query why such a thing would be unusual when she became aware of how many people were staring at him and his partner and whispering. The young lady fairly glowed, and Livvie could pick out which of the matrons was her mother from the sheer smugness on her features. “Who is his partner?”
“That is Lady Phoebe, the Marquess of Westfall’s sister.”
Livvie frowned. “I am not familiar with him.”
