Page 89 of Courting the Wrong Duke

“You do not look well.”

“I believe we have both discovered that crowded ballrooms lose their charm after a while.”

Rosalind smiled faintly. “I was beginning to think it was only me.”

Her mother laughed under her breath. “I suspect half the ladies inside are wishing for an excuse to escape.”

“Then let us be wiser than the rest.”

Without waiting for an answer, Rosalind slipped her arm through her mother's and gently guided her through the open doors onto the terrace.

The evening breeze met them at once, cool against cheeks still warmed by the ballroom. Somewhere below, a fountain trickled steadily among the gardens, while the perfume of climbing roses drifted lazily upward. Behind them, the orchestra continued to play, though distance softened the music until it blended naturally with the sounds of the summer evening.

For a little while neither of them spoke.

The silence felt comforting rather than awkward.

Rosalind rested both hands upon the cool stone railing and closed her eyes briefly, grateful for the fresh air.

“It truly is cooler out here,” she murmured.

“It is.”

Her mother watched her for a thoughtful moment before asking quietly, “And how do you find Lord William?”

The question caught Rosalind more off guard than she cared to admit. Heat that had nothing whatsoever to do with the ballroom crept into her cheeks.

She reminded herself that servants passed occasionally through the terrace doors, and that even here it was wise to choose her words carefully.

“I like him very much.”

It was exactly the sort of answer one expected from a young lady being courted. The unsettling part was that she no longer considered it entirely an act.

A knowing smile touched her mother's lips. “I thought perhaps you did.”

Rosalind lowered her gaze to the gardens below. “Mama...”

“Yes, my dear?”

“How does one know?”

Her mother regarded her curiously. “Know what?”

“How does one know whom to marry?”

The older woman was quiet for a long moment, as though searching not for the proper answer, but for the truest one. “At least for me,” she said at last, “it was surprisingly simple.”

Rosalind looked back at her.

“You marry the person who feels like your dearest friend.”

She smiled softly, though sadness lingered behind it.

“The one whose company you seek without thinking. The one beside whom silence is never uncomfortable because you never feel the need to fill it. The one whose joys become your own, and whose sorrows you cannot help but carry beside them.”

Her eyes drifted toward the moonlit gardens. “That is what your father was to me.”

Rosalind felt her throat tighten.