She pushed it out of her mind, as there was no use jumping a fence one had not ridden up to yet. A well-trained horse did not worry over what it was meant to do, it just did the right things at the right time, as would she.
The carriage slowed to a stop. They had arrived. It was time. Patience Nicolet was to take her place in society.
“Let’s get this circus going,” the duke said. “I’m all but certain that Lady Misery will be haunting the hall to be sure you’ve turned up.”
“She disapproves of your flask of brandy, Papa,” Patience said as she was helped down from the carriage.
“Does she now? Well, she’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands. Do not expect a duke to survive on lemonade and tea at this time of night, thank you very much.”
Patience giggled as they made their way inside. If only her aunt would let her papa be as he was, she would be much happier for it.
They were introduced to a patroness, the Duchess of Devonshire. She was an imposing-looking matron, but she seemed very kind and good-humored. Especially since the duke claimed he’d never heard of Devonshire. She took it as the jest it was and he promptly invited her to visit them in the Dales. She laughed and said he’d regret that invitation, as she had a habit of turning up and setting a card table for high stakes. Then he informed her he’d brought his flask and fully intended to soothe himself with brandy at some point in the evening.
The duchess had said, “I will look the other way. But Duke, do ensure that the other patronesses are looking the other way too. There are some who do take a great amount of satisfaction in enforcing the rules.”
Then, the duchess had taken Patience’s card, claiming she would return it filled with promising gentlemen. Naturally, Patience was well aware of the habit of the patronesses—other nights she would hold the card herself and be approached directly. But not for her debut. She must trust the duchess to choose wisely.
As the duke led her forward toward the ballroom, Lady Marchfield caught up to them.
“Thank goodness you are here,” she said, kissing Patience on the cheek. “Roland,” she said to the duke, eyeing his coat for any evidence of a bulge that might hint of a flask of brandy.
The duke patted his pocket to assist her in discovering its location.
Lady Marchfield pursed her lips in response. “Allow me to lead you forward, Patience.”
They went into the ballroom while the duke made various comments behind them. Most of it was along the lines of Lord Marchfield trying to rid himself of his bride. Her papa found it amusing to claim that her uncle was always desperate to get away from his wife. It was not true as far as she knew it, but that did not make it less hilarious.
At the moment though, Patience paid little attention. She was too taken up with the ballroom and the people in it. There were ladies dressed in all manner of silk fineries and gentleman looking elegant as the result of a skilled tailor. There was a glorious group of three men talking to one another who had instantly caught her eye. Two of them she was certain she’d seen in the park as she and her sisters took their gallop down Rotten Row.
They were all rather handsome and seemed to have much similarity in the looks department. They were all tall and broad-shouldered and well-built gentlemen in their prime. But there was one who stood out. His clothes were exquisite. They were not of the dandy or fop style of dress, but they were tailored to within an inch of their lives. He had very prominent cheekbones, which gave his features a rather chiseled appearance. His hair was the color of her departed mama’s sable coat—a rich and deep brown. She wrapped herself in that coat and breathed her mother’s perfume sometimes, when she felt misunderstood.
Three similar gentlemen until one took in the details. That one man who stood across the ballroom was divine.
Patience watched as the Duchess of Devonshire approached the group of gentlemen. Goodness, she would solicit them to be on her card. Well done, Duchess!
All three men looked in her direction and she averted her eyes. When they’d turned away she continued her observance. Two of the gentlemen put their names down with alacrity. But the divine one, the one with the sable brown hair… was he hesitating? Why would he hesitate?
Finally, the duchess all but put the card in his hand and he did put his name down. Patience felt vaguely uncomfortable over what she’d witnessed.
Lady Marchfield followed her gaze. “Ah, that is the Earl of Stanford on the right. In the middle is Viscount Radler, and on the left is the Earl of Kendrickson. Have a care with Lord Kendrickson, everybody knows he’s here dowry hunting. His estate is on very shaky foundations at the moment.”
“But the Earl of Stanford,” Patience said, “he seemed to hesitate in putting his name down. Why would he hesitate?”
“Did he? Hmmm,” Lady Marchfield said.
“Hmmm? Aunt? What does that mean?” Patience asked.
“Well, the earl is a very measured sort of person. At least, that is how he’s always struck me.”
“Why would that make him hesitate? Do not I pass muster on looks?”
“You look positively enchanting, Patience,” Lady Marchfield said.
“Then what is it?” Patience asked. She was really beginning to feel anxious or annoyed or she did not know what.
The duke took that moment to join in the conversation. “What Lady Misery means to say, Patience, is perhaps the earl did not approve of you and your sisters taking a gallop down Rotten Row. He might be a little stiff-lipped. At least I imagine so if Lady Misery here approves of him.”
She thought he’d been one of the gentlemen they’d passed by. But why should a gallop require approval? What was wrong with it?
