“Aren’t they all?” Oliver chuckled. “So tell me who the most sought-after young ladies are.”
Hudson choked on the wine he had just taken from a passing waiter and was sipping. “I think you should stick to the wallflowers.”
“Why the wallflowers?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Come, let’s sign some dance cards. That group of debutantes looking this way is a good place to start.”
“Ah, you’re forgetting one thing—we need introductions.”
“Hell,” Hudson said as he hurried off and returned with the Master of Ceremonies. “The duke and I would like anintroduction to those three young ladies over there.” His friend pointed.
Oliver tried not to feel insulted as the man looked at him with pity and shook his head. “Come this way, Your Grace, my lord.”
They were presented to Lady Sophia Linfield, Lady Betsey Trubridge, and Miss Frances Smythe. All three ladies blushed. Oliver wrote his name on Lady Sophia’s dance card for a waltz. Hudson scribbled his name on all three dance cards. He was always one to outdo everyone else. It amazed Oliver that they were friends, since they were complete opposites. Perhaps that was why their friendship worked.
When it came time for Oliver to collect the lovely Lady Sophia for his waltz, her mother intervened, explaining it was a misunderstanding. A Lord Cheville was scheduled for the waltz.
Every time he tried to speak to or dance with a young lady, the mother, father, or brother would intercede. Several wallflowers he approached even snubbed him. Being treated as a pariah was wearing on his nerves and self-esteem. Yes, he needed a wife, but he would go about it at another time. A dull ache was forming behind his eyes, and he sought peace and something strong to drink. He found Hudson. “I’m leaving. I’ll be at White’s if you want to join me for a nightcap.”
“Perhaps,” he said, frowning. “Forgive all the idiots here tonight, West. They mean you no harm.”
“Right.” Oliver thanked the Earl and Countess, and just as he had the exit to the ballroom in sight, he was stopped.
“Your Grace,” said the elderly widow, Lady Dorchester, a friend of his late grandmother. “Leaving so soon?”
He bowed. “Lady Dorchester, how lovely to see you.” He tried to hide his dismay at the cruel treatment he had endured tonight, but he feared he failed, his frown betraying him. “Oneknows when one ispersona non grata.” He winced. “Forgive me.”
“No need. I’m shocked by how you were treated. Don’t give up. Your duchess is somewhere in theton.”
“Thank you,” he said, bowing again. “I bid you goodnight.”
The footman handed him his overcoat, hat, and gloves. He donned them and made his way outside to his carriage, which was nearby. “Take me to White’s, Hebert.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Hebert, his driver, replied.
Once inside his luxurious town coach, which he had commissioned from Barker & Company when he married his second wife, he leaned against the squabs and sighed deeply, letting out the night’s tension. Or at least some of it. He didn’t think he’d ever relax completely. He glared at the interior of the large coach, wondering why on earth he’d purchased it. When he’d commissioned it, he’d envisioned it filled with his wife and children. Tonight, the emptiness mocked him, much as the occupants of the ball had.
He wasn’t one for self-pity or melancholy, but bloody hell, he deserved some good and happiness in his life. Tomorrow, he would come up with a definitive plan for finding a suitable wife. Tonight, he’d drown his anguish in some fine whisky. By the time his coach stopped and his liveried footman opened the door, he felt lighter on his feet. The sweltering, sweaty crush of the ballroom was far behind him in memory as he stepped into White’s. The back of the room was his preference whenever he visited, so he headed in that direction and took one of four chairs around a low table near the blazing hearth. Once he rested his weary bones in the comfortable chair, he raised his hand, signaling a waiter. “Whisky, and leave the bottle.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Moments later, the waiter poured him a glass of whisky and set both on the table. “Is there anything else, Your Grace?”
“No.”
The waiter bowed and left him to his whisky and thoughts. He relished the whisky as it went down nice and smooth with a subtle burn, but not his thoughts. He poured himself another, leaned back in the chair, crossed one leg over the other, and perused the room as he sipped his drink. White’s was moderately crowded, and here he had thought everyone was attending the Barrington ball. He recognized Lord Whitley, who had two daughters of marriageable age. Perhaps he would approach him or call upon him. Maybe, maybe not.
As he nursed his second glass of whisky, two young bucks, Mr. Cambridge and Viscount Meyers, recently out of university, approached. “Do you mind if we join you?” Meyers asked.
“Be my guest,” he said, using his drink to indicate the empty chairs. Once they sat, they waved over the same waiter. Oliver said, “Bring two glasses. The drinks are on me.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” both men said.
“So, why are you fine gentlemen not at the Barrington Ball?”
Mr. Cambridge coughed into his hand, trying not to laugh. “We are not actively seeking brides. You must know that when a single gentleman attends such a social function, it goes without saying that he is seeking a bride.” He cleared his throat and looked at the viscount. “And we are not.”
“I didn’t think so. I just thought I’d ask.”
