“But he never smiles,” bemoaned a second, equally pretty girl. “Or dances. Or plays whist. Or…anything. He’s too dull.”
The two girls requested the maid to freshen their necks with cooling cloths and then strolled with languor to stand by the window.
Evelyn drained her goblet and made for the mirror, remembering to walk as though on air and not stomp and swerve as one had to on the pavements of Seven Dials.
Staring at her reflection, she restrained a wayward curl…or three, whilst earwigging.
“A dull husband is preferable to violent or wrinkled,” the dark-haired girl assured.
Evelyn could not disagree. This girl may be callous in her practicality, but daughters were oft bartered as cattle, their say in the matter inconsequential.
Nodding sagely, the other girl pinched her cheeks to feverish. “Even his cravat refused to wrinkle tonight, and I doubt the duke could be stirred enough to beat a wife.”
Evelyn brushed away a tenacious stalk of straw from her hem and pondered. Dukes of a marriageable age did not grow on trees, so perhaps Rothwell was here…orsomeduke, at the very least.
Ruefully smiling at the maid, who grinned as she swept up half a hay meadow, Evelyn departed the retiring room and flounced back to the ballroom, gazing down corridors and peering into corners just in case, but only ancient marble busts faced back, eyes forever blank.
The ballroom heaved with bodies whilst the air hung heavy with wax and perfume. As a rule on a late spring night, all the French doors would be flung open, but this evening a few stood merely ajar, a cool north wind gusting the curtains.
A Classical style had been chosen for the decor, with mock columns rearing tall and friezes upon the wall depicting ancient battles. Huge candelabras lit the ensemble and an orchestra played in the corner with rosy faces and rapid virtuosity. Evelyn stood on tiptoes, as best she could in Flora’s slippers, to view the dancers.
Nothing but a blur of colour and faces, and so with rumbling belly, she hastened towards a waiter holding a tray of champagne, hoping another might quell the ravenous clamour.
Supper could not come soon enough.
But then…ahead, a proud golden lion cut her view of the summoning goblets.
She blinked.
Two lions, in fact.
She blinked again.
And then noticed that one of them was a few years younger with a Byronic mane, golden spectacles and the latest striped stockings, whereas the elder radiated authority, eyes skimming the ballroom in utter ennui.
Alas, the champagne would have to wait.
Drawing a deep breath of heated air and smoothing her silk skirts, Evelyn slowly sauntered towards the Duke of Rothwell.
“Notice me,” she whispered under her breath.
But of course, he didn’t. Solely kept his eyes an ostrich-feather’s length above the dancers’ heads.
And then, sod it, an attractive dark couple appeared before them.
The duke’s sinful looking younger cub led the midnight-haired lady to the edge of the dance floor, leaving the two lofty gentlemen together.
A formidable pair.
One dark as Hades, with a glare to wilt any flower, the other a beacon of sunshine which could revive any fallen blossom with a smile.
Except he was glaring also.
Not to be hen-hearted, however, she continued on her path.
The dark as Hades gentleman noticed her course of collision first and one satanic brow raised that gave the shivers and commanded,Halt. Don’t bother.
But he’d never been in debt to Mr Filgrave, so she held straight and true.
