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“That’s very kind of you, Your Grace,” she said, all trace of irony carefully erased from her voice.
“You know that’s not true.”
She glanced at him quickly, startled. “Do I?”
He bowed his head, murmuring quietly, “You seem an intelligent woman. You know I’m courting your cousin. Therefore, my offer is but a way to gracefully meet her again tonight.”
There didn’t seem much to say to that, so Artemis remained quiet as they gathered the three glasses of punch.
“Tell me, Miss Greaves,” the duke said as they began the trek back across the ballroom. “Do you approve of my courtship of your cousin?”
“I can’t imagine that my approval matters one way or the other, Your Grace,” Artemis clipped out, unaccountably irritated. Was he patronizing her?
“Can’t you?” One corner of his mouth flicked up. “But you see I grew up in a house full of women. I don’t discount the weight of a whispered confidence in a feminine boudoir. Several judicious words from you in your cousin’s ear could scupper my suit.”
She looked at him in astonishment. “Your Grace assigns me more power than in truth I have.”
“You’re modest.”
“Truly I am not.”
“Hmm.” They were nearing Penelope who was still in conversation with Scarborough. Wakefield’s eyes narrowed. “But you haven’t answered my question: will you back my suit?”
She glanced at him. In her position she ought to tread carefully. “Do you have an affection for Penelope?”
“Does that matter to Lady Penelope?” He arched an eyebrow pointedly.
“No.” She lifted her chin. “But I find, Your Grace, that it matters to me.”
Penelope turned and, catching sight of them, broke into a gorgeous smile. “Oh, Artemis, finally. I vow I’m quite parched.” She took her cup from Artemis’s hands and looked up through her eyelashes at Wakefield. “Have you come to scold me some more, Your Grace?”
He bowed and murmured something over her hand.
Artemis took a step back. Then another. The tableau—Penelope, Wakefield, and Scarborough—were the players in this theater.
She merely swept the stage.
She tore her gaze from the trio and looked about the room. Several chairs had been set against the wall for the older guests and such. She caught sight of a familiar face and began moving in that direction.
“Would you like some punch, ma’am?”
“Oh, how kind!” Bathilda Picklewood was a stout lady with a round, pink face framed by gray curls. In her lap was a small black-white-and-brown spaniel, alertly watching the room. “I’d just begun to think that I ought to go in search of punch.”
Artemis held her hand out to the spaniel—Mignon—as Miss Picklewood took a sip. Mignon licked Artemis’s fingers politely. “Lady Phoebe isn’t here?”
Miss Picklewood shook her head regretfully. “You’re aware that she doesn’t attend crowded events. I’m here tonight with my good friend Mrs. White—she’s gone to repair a bit of lace on her costume.”
Artemis nodded as she settled next to the older lady. She did know that the duke’s youngest sister didn’t usually attend crowded events, but she’d hoped anyway. A sudden thought occurred to her. “But Lady Phoebe will be at her brother’s house party, surely?”
“Oh, yes, she’s quite looking forward to it, though I’m afraid the duke isn’t.” Miss Picklewood chuckled. “He hates house parties—really any party. Says it takes him away from more important things. I saw you with Maximus earlier.”
It took Artemis a moment to remember that Maximus was the Christian name of the Duke of Wakefield. Funny to think of a duke having a Christian name, but it suited him. She could see him as a ruthless Roman general. But of course Miss Picklewood would call Wakefield by his given name. She was a distant relation to the duke, and she lived with him and Lady Phoebe as a sort of companion for the young girl.
Artemis looked at the other woman with new interest. Miss Picklewood must be one of the women his house was full of. “He was helping me bring the punch to Penelope.”
“Mmm.”
“Miss Picklewood…”
