“Approached?” Serenity asked.
The duchess nodded. “A certain marquess has requested to be put down. Roland Garner, Marquess of Thorpe.”
Garner. That was the family name of the man in the window. That was the man.
“Now,” the duchess went on, “he would not reveal to me how he happens to know of you or know you would be here, but I am intrigued—this is certainly the first time he has ever made such a request. As a usual thing, the marquess is frowning at all the world and appears as if he were dragged here.”
Serenity was surprised to hear of him frowning, as she’d only seen him smile. On the other hand, she could not help but feel the compliment of him seeking her out when he’d never sought out any lady before her.
“He saw me walking my dog in the snow,” Serenity said.
“That’s right,” the duke said, “this girl is very affected by sunrise, sunset, and weather of all sorts. I expect she was shouting her compliments to nature.”
“I was, rather,” Serenity admitted.
“Who would have guessed that would spark an interest in the reserved and serious marquess,” the duchess said. “Well now, he requested the dance before our modest little supper and I suppose I ought to comply.”
The reserved and serious marquess? Goodness, she had not thought of anything like that. She wondered how he would view her own temperament, which was not precisely reserved or serious.
She pushed those thoughts aside. She had not even met the gentleman yet. Perhaps the duchess had it all wrong. She could not say how likely it was that the Duchess of Devonshire had got it all wrong, but she might have.
“We’re calling this thing you put on a supper now, are we?” the duke said with a snort.
“Do not be naughty, Duke,” the duchess said, “the eccentricities of Almack’s are of long tradition and not likely to change. Consider it a bit of well-bred suffering.”
The duke and the duchess further sparred on the merits, or demerits, of Almack’s idea of a supper. Serenity paid little attention to it, though. The gentleman in the window was here and had sought her out. He was not a valet; he was a marquess and he had smiled at her out his window, and then he had sought her out.
She put aside the idea that he was thought serious and reserved.
*
Roland had kepta sharp eye on the ballroom doors, waiting for Lady Serenity to appear. The Duchess of Devonshire had sworn she would put him down for supper and he presumed she would do it. Of course, she’d been overcurious regarding his request, but he’d revealed nothing. What could he say? You see, Duchess, I saw a lovely lady with a three-legged dog shouting at the wonder of the snow and was enchanted by it.
Once the duchess was convinced she’d get nowhere with her questions, she’d changed course. She’d negotiated a deal by insisting on him escorting several other ladies who were expected to attend the night. One, in particular, a certain Lady Matilda, was one of her personal projects. The lady was cousin to her duke, and her lord was determined Lady Matilda make a good match. Lord Devonshire was to turn his irritated gaze away from his wife’s current gambling debts if she could manage his cousin being well settled.
None of that was of any matter, as he had to do something with himself until the dance before supper. He’d rather not relocate to the card room, as it was always filled with smokeand gossip. One did not have the luxury of turning up late to Almack’s, as the patronesses were delighted to bar the doors at eleven. Even if that had not been the case, he would not have risked strolling in late. Lady Serenity Nicolet would not be standing round with an unfilled dance card.
As he awaited Lady Serenity’s arrival, he was attempting to ignore his brother Charles, who had annoyingly turned up. He supposed a younger son of a duke was always going to receive a voucher, though he wished it was not so. There seemed to be nowhere in Town where Roland could be assured of not encountering his brother, not even his club.
“The race is on, I suppose,” Charles said.
“What race?”
“The race to the altar. I have vowed to our father that I will wed this season, and he has been disappointed by your lack of progress for two seasons running. I suppose you will not want to disappoint him again.”
Roland did not respond. It was one of Charles’ long-running commentaries that he was a disappointment to the duke. He did not particularly believe it. Not these days, anyway. Though the duke had in the past often counseled him to be more like Charles, his father had seemed to slowly grow to have a healthy respect for Roland’s horsemanship and his swordsmanship. Both of which were superior to Charles’ own skill. As well, the duke was rather approving of the reserved mask he wore these days.
“Perhaps this recent habit of always looking frowning and serious,” Charles said, “is not attractive to the ladies. Or, I should say, this mask you wear that has little to do with yourself.”
“You might try a mask on someday,” Roland said, “I expect it would be a vast improvement.”
Charles laughed his brittle laugh that was not really a laugh. It was more a laugh emanating from being stung. His youngerbrother was expert and enthusiastic about handing round the insults, but not a very sanguine receiver of them.
“Has he told you? He’s given me Marshall Downs in anticipation of my nuptials. He has great faith in my ability to accomplish my aim.”
As his brother had nattered on, Roland had kept his eyes on the doors. Then, there she was. Lady Serenity Nicolet. She had been lovely in the snow on the square. Now, she was lovelier still.
She wore a dark blue dress encrusted with jewels that sparkled in the candlelight, and her hair, though more restrained than he’d first seen it, was a miraculous shade. It was the softest brown he’d ever seen and seemed perfectly matched to her eyes. Her lips were rather wonderful too, just full enough and turned up at the corners.
