She had told her father she planned a neutral attitude and she was determined to stick to it. However, it would be very hard.
But there he was and approaching fast.
As he always seemed to be, he was positively dashing. Dashing Dashlend—how that was not his nickname she did not know. His clothes were perfection, his features divine, and his very perfect Roman nose. None of that was for her though. It was all for Lady Lavender.
She felt the familiar rush of lightheadedness, though she had jumped around her bedchamber for nearly an hour before getting dressed. She took in a breath and held her head very still to steady herself.
“Your Grace. Lady Grace,” he said, with an elegant bow.
“Dashlend,” the duke said flatly.
“If I might have the honor of showing you to the cloakroom?”
The duke shrugged. “Any footman could do it, I suppose.”
Not surprisingly, Lord Dashlend seemed a bit thrown on the back foot from that comment. He recovered himself and said, “Excellent, just this way.”
The duke squeezed Grace’s hand as Lord Dashlend led them forward. Her father took her cloak and Lord Dashlend secured her card. Before handing it over, he said, “Might I put my name down?”
Grace had been expecting it. After all, as the daisies had spelled out, she was a new friend.
She nodded. “Of course, Lord Dashlend.”
Though she pretended at disinterest, she did steal a glance at where he put himself down.
She assumed he’d go for somewhere in the middle, but he did not. He put himself down for the last. He would take her into supper.
Why? Did Lady Lavender not attend this evening? Surely that must be the case. As he could not spend extended time with the lady who’d been sent roses, he contented himself with a new friend.
Or even more likely, he wished some time to apologize for the flowers being misdelivered.
It was not very fair that he do it, though. It would put a burden on Grace to carry on with her appearance of neutrality and disinterest. As well, she was meant to be looking further afield, and it would have been sensible for her to dine with a gentleman as yet unknown to her.
He handed her card to her, and just then another familiar voice was heard.
She turned to find Lord Montclave.
“Your Grace, Lady Grace,” Lord Montclave said, “I see my cousin has beat me to the punch.” He glanced at her card. “May I, Lady Grace?”
Grace nodded. Lord Montclave wrote himself down for the first. For some reason, he spent just a bit too long a time staring at her card. There was not much to see, as he was only the second gentleman on it. Then, he seemed to collect himself. He smiled and handed it back.
They stood there awkwardly for a moment as her father stared off into the distance. He gave off the impression that he found the company of these two gentlemen just the smallest bit tedious.
Fortunately, Lady Margaret and Lord Harraby appeared to break the uncomfortable silence.
Amidst the greetings, Grace looked with wonder at Lady Margaret’s attire. Each time Grace saw the lady, her skirts seemed just the littlest bit wider. This evening, she wore a silver satin gown embellished with strings of seed pearls draped in rows. There was so much fabric to the skirt that it fell into wide folds. The ostrich feathers in her hair were as they had been from the first—a bit thinning but very tall.
“Lady Margaret,” the duke said, “you take me back to a simpler time.”
Lord Harraby said, “That is just what I think, Your Grace. Remember how it was, when we were all young and full of bounce?”
“Now,” Lady Margaret said to Lord Harraby and the duke, “do not attempt to convince me, either of you, that you have lost your bounce.”
“If I have not,” Lord Harraby said gallantly, “the charge of it must be laid at Lady Margaret’s door. Our current interests have been invigorating.”
Lady Margaret laughed. “Oh yes, our current interests. There is nothing so good as to see two worthy young people happily settled.”
Grace was not at all certain what they referred to. Was Lady Margaret a staunch supporter of a match between Lord Dashlend and Lady Lavender? Why did Lord Montclave appear so stricken over it?
