She thought that was surely what she must do. She must not moon around and worry everyone just because all her hopes and dreams were crushed. She was a duke’s daughter; she could not allow any feelings of despair to inconvenience anybody.
She was also determined to keep any lightheadedness or dizziness under wraps. It was always the case that a circumstance that was upsetting put her off her feet a bit.
As might be expected, her sisters went to great lengths to cheer her. Valor explained that she’d had a long consultation with Mrs. Wendover, occasionally joined by Nelson, and concluded Lord Dashlend was a terrible person and something bad should happen to him. She declared he would be ashamed to discover her opinion.
Grace had scolded her and ordered that she was not to write any letters about it. Valor had refused to meet her eye and then pretended she heard Mrs. Right calling for her. She ran from the room and so Grace was afraid she already had written down her sentiments.
Patience and Serenity, who so rarely joined together as the twins they were, brought her some of the last miniature apple cakes, which Patience had been hiding in her room.
Winsome attempted to convince Grace that she’d been suspicious of Lord Dashlend from the first, which might have been true, as Winsome was suspicious of everybody.
Verity explained that florists making mistakes was a very usual circumstance. At least, she had heard it said.
Mrs. Right sat by Grace, patted her hand, and hoped that Lord Dashlend would pay dearly for his perfidy.
Even Felicity arrived, and Grace had no doubt she’d been sent for. Felicity needed no explanation of what had happened and came fully prepared to support her sister. She was mightily perplexed, as she had been certain a match was in the offing.
Grace’s father, of all of them, seemed more grim than was his usual mien. All he would say was that he’d sent Dashlend a message. A clear message of his contempt.
Of all that she was told, that might be the most worrying. However, the duke could not be pressed into revealing what he’d done. All he would say was that a gentleman so foolish as to not assure himself that the flowers he sent were going to the right address ought to be called to task over it.
There had been some question over whether she would attend Lady Montague’s ball. Valor suggested they could stay cozy together and play Fact or Fib. Serenity wept over the idea of Grace dancing as if all was well when it was not—how could she bear it? Patience was of two minds—she presumed Grace did not wish to go and so should stay at home. On the other hand, if she did go she might stumble upon an opportunity to hit Lord Dashlend over the head, which would be gratifying to everybody. When Winsome was apprised of the hitting over the head idea, she began leaning toward Grace going after all. Verity, ever willing to provide a counterpoint, mentioned that Lord Dashlend might hit Grace back, as it was established that he was a terrible person, and then where would they be?
Her father’s opinion weighed the heaviest with Grace. He said she ought to go and hold her head high. There were times, he said, when one must just face a thing down.
Grace decided she’d rather not go, but she must go. It was awful enough that she had been informed of the real case of things with Lord Dashlend. He’d no doubt been told by the florist of the mistake that had been made. It would be a thousand times worse if she were to let on that she had been at all affected by it.
Was she to stay at home and allow Lord Dashlend to imagine she was in a puddle of tears over it?
No, she would not dothat. She had lost enough, she would not throw her pride into the fire too.
As she was to go, she selected the dress she admired the most to give her courage. It had never been worn, as Felicity had not thought it suited her—it was a frothy confection of pale blue silk with a netting overlay in the same shade. The netting was embellished with hundreds of the tiniest crystals that would shimmer in the candlelight.
She would do her best to go to the ball and be cheerful. She would look about her more than she had done so far. She’d shot her arrow too high and now she must lower her bow and aim for the more realistic prospects of the single gentlemen in Town.
Perhaps her own marriage would not be the sort of love match that Felicity had found, but then not all were. Certainly, she could be happy, or at least content, with a genial gentleman who was not as high a flyer as Lord Dashlend.
Grace sighed as she wiled away the afternoon pretending to read a book. She would be realistic and practical, though it would not be as thrilling as her recent experience of being unrealistic and impractical.
*
MILES ENTERED HIShouse with trepidation after being apprised of the note, the awful flowers, and the valets turning up for interviews.
The front hall was a jungle of unwanted vegetation. His first order of business was to direct it to be removed.
Then he’d gone to the drawing room and informed the hopeful fellow being looked over by Lady Margaret that there had been an unfortunate mix-up. He directed the footmen to bar the entrance to anybody else turning up.
Lady Margaret had been surprised that her services were not needed, but happily jumped to the next thing of interest. She would attend Lady Montague’s ball, escorted by Lord Harraby. Amidst broad hints that she was expecting to be apprised of welcome news this night, Miles left her with a tea tray.
He jogged up the stairs to his bedchamber and found the door locked.
Miles banged on it. “Open up the door, Moreau.”
From the other side, Moreau answered back. “Ah, he still gives Moreau orders though Moreau is to be replaced. Moreau is to be thrown to the road like a stray dog. Moreau—the greatest valet living! The infamy! Perhaps Lord Dashlend might employ the duke’s ridiculous valet and have always access to his oldest set of clothes.”
Miles was not so certain Moreau was the greatest valet living, but he was competent enough. As for why he would suppose Miles to be interested in the duke’s valet’s oldest set of clothes, that must remain a mystery. “There has been some sort of mistake. I did not advertise for a valet.”
“Moreau saw it with his own eyes!”
