Page 3 of The Wedding-Crashing Duchess

“Where are you going?” Charity said, a hint of worry reflecting back in her eyes. “I think Phillipa might still be too occupied to speak, so you should let go of that pursuit for tonight.”

“I’m only stepping out for some air,” she assured her. “Don’t wait for me.”

Augusta left before they could find another reason to detain her. She moved along the edge of the ballroom, passing groups of guests who scarcely noticed her departure. Near the doors, she glimpsed Phillipa again and nearly changed direction.

Phillipa stood beside her father, listening to a stout man with a red face. Her attention remained fixed on the speaker, but for one brief moment her eyes shifted across the room and met Augusta’s.

Augusta paused.

There was something in Phillipa’s expression, but it disappeared so quickly that Augusta could not be certain she had seen it at all. She took one step toward her, but Lady Hewes appeared at Phillipa’s shoulder and placed a hand lightly against her daughter’s back, guiding her toward another group of waiting guests.

The opportunity vanished, and Augusta continued through the doors.

The entrance hall was cooler, though still crowded with footmen, late arrivals, and servants carrying trays.

A footman opened one of the tall glass doors when she approached, and a rush of cold air swept around her bare shoulders.

“My lady,” he said with concern, “shall I have your wrap brought?”

“No, thank you. I shall remain close to the house.”

He looked doubtful but stood aside.

Augusta drew in a deep breath and walked slowly along the terrace, folding her arms against the chill.

Suddenly, all she had were her thoughts, which were now spiraling into a territory that she didn’t want them to go to.

Her second Season was nearly over, and she had received proposals, though none she could accept. One man had been agreeable but dull, another charming but deeply in debt. She had declined them all with Charity’s support.

Phillipa’s engagement had unsettled her because Phillipa had always been as selective as Augusta. If even she had accepted a marriage arranged with such speed, perhaps there came a point when every woman was forced to choose between the life she wanted and the life available to her.

In a few years, Matilda would be old enough to make her debut. Charity and Duncan’s family would grow. She shuddered to think where she would be.

A gust of wind moved across the terrace, lifting the loose curls near her temples. Augusta shivered and looked back toward the doors.

“I should get back,” she sighed to herself. It was no use spiraling like this.

She descended the three steps leading from the terrace to the upper garden. The ballroom was in the opposite direction.

“Maybe in a while,” she concluded and decided that she could follow it for a few minutes, calm herself, and re-enter through the side doors.

The gravel crunched softly beneath her slippers.

Without the light from the terrace, the night seemed darker than she had expected, and the first drop of rain struck her cheek.

She stopped and looked up. Another landed near her eye, followed by several more against her hair and shoulders.

“Oh, excellent.”

Within moments, the rain fell in a sudden cold sheet, darkening the gravel and sending Augusta hurrying along the path. She lifted the front of her gown with one hand and shielded her face with the other, though neither effort offered much protection.

The side entrance should have been ahead. She rounded the hedge and found herself facing two branching paths, neither of which she recognised.

Augusta stared at them in disbelief.

She had visited Hewes Park before, but only during daylight and never beyond the main terrace. The garden’s orderly design now seemed deliberately confusing. One path descended toward the trees while the other curved behind a stone wall.

She turned back, but the hedge concealed the terrace. All the while, the rain intensified, pattering loudly against the leaves.