Would he ever feel free of this?
“They judge me,” he muttered, “and I despise being here.”
“You need a glass of wine, my friend.”
Owen remarked as he hastily withdrew, making his way toward the refreshments table. While he was gone, Graham took a moment to linger in an emptier space of the ballroom. He noticed how two girls watched him with wide, curious eyes. Yet there was a determined set to one lady’s face. He knew that look—the ambitious look of a girl who thought she was already worthy of his attention. There was something smug about her that he did not like.
Next to her, the other lady looked at Owen as he retreated, and Owen felt somewhat ensnared, part of a concocted plan, cunning ladies wanting to be the next Duchess of Blackthorn. He turned away from them. They whispered behind their fans, and he tuned them out in time for Owen to return, pressing a glass into his hand. It cooled the heat spreading beneath his shirt collar, the warmth making him somewhat disorientated.
“Your Grace,” another voice called. He only shot them a dark look before walking away, outright ignoring the next countess or baroness wanting to throw her daughter at him.
“Graham!” Owen called, laughing.
“Do not follow me,” he muttered. After a moment, he added, “please, Owen.”
It was the addition that had his friend dropping the humor and merely nodding. As he walked through the ballroom, he was accosted by debutantes, all flashing their smiles, snapping their fans. Their mothers hovered, throwing facts at him—how many instruments they played, their proficiency with foreign languages, the dances they could perform. He ignored every single one, pushing through the crowd. His nerves were frayed, and each new voice grated on them even further.
“Beastly, indeed,” he heard, as the next whispers picked up. He tensed, thoughts darkening. How the same society could, in one moment, push their daughters in his path, and in the next tear him down verbally, both loving his status yet disliking him, was something he could not endure.
He was tired of the ton’s behavior, their gossip and way of watching like he was a caged animal. His knuckles were white around his wine glass, and his eyes scanned over the top of heads.There. He noticed the open doors that led out to the terrace. For a moment, surely he could find some fresh air in which to breathe. To reapply his armor, thoroughly pierced by the women in attendance.
“Duke of Blackthorn!” One man called. “I must introduce you to my—”
“No,” he snapped. “You must leave me be! All of you—you mustleave me be.”
His growl of frustration was uncontrolled but he didn’t linger to see the reactions. He merely strode to the garden, beset by a desperate unease that clawed at his very composure.Heavens, he thought.I need to get out of here.
Everybody scattered out of the way.
It was only his own need to escape that stopped him from seeing the young woman who scurried through the crowd.
***
“Cassandra,no,” Beatrice whispered as Amelia lingered near the girls, their faces flush from dancing. “Do not approach His Grace! Why, look at the expression on his face. Lady Harold just said what a foul mood he is in. He all but pushed her daughter out of the way!”
“I do not care,” Cassandra said, shaking off Beatrice’s warning hand. “This is the perfect time. He deserves a lady here who will not have a mama throwing herself at him. My mother trusts me to handle my own affairs tonight. She knows I will speak well with the suitors. I shall do my utmost to uplift His Grace’s spirits.”
Determined, Cassandra walked away from Beatrice, weaving through the crowd. Amelia withdrew from it all. Lords, dukes, ladies—it was all nonsensical, and her head grew light from the heat of the ballroom. The lemonade sat heavily in her stomach, her glass long handed off to a servant.
There was the terrace only a short distance away. It would provide with some sort of relative calm, and Amelia knew it was where she needed to be. Her eyes downcast, she hurriedly set off in that direction. Yet she did not see the figure approaching her until it was too late—until he was upon her. Her balance left her entirely as she flailed back, her ankle giving way beneath her.
But before she could fall to the floor, a strong arm reached out to catch her.
Then her gaze lifted to that of the man who caught her. Eyes that were of the darkest brown—eyes that looked pinched in curiosity, as the Duke of Blackthorn gazed right back at her.
All thoughts fled her mind, proper etiquette fleeing her, and the music and those around her faded away into nothing.
CHAPTER THREE
Graham did not know what came over him.
Not when he collided with the woman whom he had not seen, and not when he had reached out to grasp her before she fell. And certainly not when he did not immediately let go of her but instead let himself be caught in her gaze.
Why? he thought.
Was it because, as she looked up at him, still supported by his arm, she only appeared curious and as enticed as him? There was no smugness, no desperation, no demand. Only a confused sort of wonder. Her body was soft against his, her warmth seeping into him, entirely different from the heat of the room. Together, they were still, trapped in a spell that had everything else around him fading out.
The music, the stares, the whispers—this woman’s hazel eyes made it all go away.
