Page 32 of Courting the Wrong Duke

“Mother. William.”

He inclined his head first to the Dowager Duchess before acknowledging his younger brother with the same measured courtesy.

“I trust your journey was uneventful.”

“Entirely.”

“Good.”

The exchange ended there.

Algernon's attention shifted as Lady Eastmere entered the gallery with Rosalind and Isabella at her side.

Lady Eastmere carried herself with the quiet grace expected of a countess, though William detected a new resolve in her bearing. Rosalind matched her step without hesitation.

She looked lovely this evening, the soft blue of her gown lending warmth to her fair complexion and brown hair.

Yet it was not the dress that caught his attention. It was the composure.

She had carefully concealed every trace of the uncertainty he had glimpsed that morning. To anyone else, she would appear every inch an earl's daughter receiving guests with practiced confidence.

William knew better.

Algernon inclined his head. “Lady Eastmere.”

“Your Grace.”

“Lady Rosalind.”

“Your Grace.”

Nothing more passed between them.

William stepped smoothly into the silence before it had time to become uncomfortable.

“Lady Eastmere, Lady Rosalind, may I present Her Grace, the Duchess of Aldermere.”

Augusta greeted them with impeccable grace, her smile gentle enough to put any stranger at ease.

“Lady Eastmere. Lady Rosalind.”

Rosalind returned the greeting without hesitation, yet William noticed her studying Augusta with quiet curiosity.

It was difficult to explain. Augusta never said the wrong thing. Never breached etiquette. Never displayed the slightest impropriety.

Yet there were moments when William found himself wishing she would.

Perfection, he had noticed, could be every bit as unsettling as rudeness. It possessed not the smallest trace of warmth.

William's attention shifted instinctively to Rosalind. For the briefest instant, something unreadable crossed her face before she recovered herself, the polished smile returning so quickly he almost convinced himself he had imagined it.

Before he could dwell upon it, a steward announced that His Grace would address the assembled guests. Conversation gradually subsided as visitors gathered before the central gallery. Algernon stepped onto the small platform prepared for him. He looked entirely at ease beneath so many eyes.

“My friends,” he began, “allow me first to thank you all for joining us this evening in support of the British Institution.”

His voice carried easily through the hall.

He spoke not only of the artists whose work surrounded them, but of the value of preserving beauty for future generations. He spoke of young painters whose talents deserved encouragement, and of established masters whose works reminded Britain of her history.