“How fortunate that we prevented one another from committing repetition.”
“Silence, I find, rarely objects to repetition.”
“In a ballroom, silence is nearly rebellion.”
“Then I wonder you do not practice it more often.”
She looked at him sharply. He looked back, and the faint amusement in his eyes nearly undid her.
Frances turned her attention forward. “I prefer rebellion to have witnesses.”
“I had noticed.”
They entered the ballroom before she could reply. Lady Ashford’s house had been arranged to make the most of candlelight, and candlelight had returned the favor. Mirrors multiplied the glow until the room seemed afloat in gold. Roses and greenery had been draped along the mantelpieces, and their fragrance mingled with perfume, wax, and the polished sweetness of the floor. Ladies moved in pale silks and bright jewels, while gentlemen bowed, smiled, judged, and pretended not to judge.
Frances felt the usual stir as she and Andrew entered together. Society never stared when it could glance, whisper, and wound with greater elegance. Fans lifted. Heads turned by degrees. A lady near the musicians paused mid-sentence. Two young men looked away too quickly.
Andrew’s arm remained steady beneath her hand. Frances disliked needing steadiness from any person, but she was grateful for his all the same.
They were soon separated by the claims of civility. Lady Ashford came to greet them. Lord Pembroke bowed and asked Andrew some question about the roads. A severe old aunt of somebody’s complimented Frances’ gown in a manner that suggested surprise had been overcome by good breeding.
Frances answered as she ought. She smiled. She listened. She made one remark which caused Lady Ashford to laugh and another which made the old aunt uncertain whether she had been admired or insulted.
All the while, she knew where Andrew stood.
It was absurd. She did not look for him. She simply knew. He was a few paces away, speaking with Mr. Haversham now, with his attention apparently fixed upon some matter of estate improvements. He looked composed, remote, and entirely occupied.
That was when the young gentleman approached her. Frances remembered his face before she recalled his name. It was a certain Mr. Langley, who was a nephew of someone important enough to make him confident and not important enough to make him careful. He bowed rather lower than the acquaintance warranted.
“Your Grace,” he greeted her. “I had hoped for the honor of finding you unattended.”
Frances’s smile cooled at once. “Had you?”
“A rare opportunity, I am sure.”
“Rare opportunities are not always wise ones, Mr. Langley.”
He laughed, as though she had invited him to continue. “I had heard Your Grace possessed a dangerous wit.”
“Then you are well warned.”
His gaze travelled over her gown with a freedom that made her fingers tighten around her fan.
“Danger has its attractions,” he mused. “Particularly when it is so handsomely presented.”
Frances lifted her brows. “You are generous with your compliments.”
“And you are severe in receiving them.”
“I try to meet every remark according to its merit.”
That should have been enough. With a gentleman of sense, it would have been more than enough. Mr. Langley, however, appeared to suffer from that particular masculine affliction which mistook a woman’s restraint for encouragement.
He stepped nearer.
“One cannot blame a man for wishing to test whether the Duchess of Sinclair is as formidable as rumor claims.”
“One can blame a man for a great many things, if he is obliging enough to provide cause.”
