Page 61 of Regency in Color

“I will consider it. Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “You know where to send the receipt.”

“Of course.”

“I will see you next week … or tonight, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” she hedged. “Although, it is a masked affair, is it not? You might set eyes on me and not recognize me at all.”

“A fair point. Regardless, I hope you have a pleasant evening, Miss Ramsey. Good day.”

“Good day, Your Grace.”

Thalia slumped once Westerfield was gone, letting out a sigh. She was always on edge following an encounter with the duke, but this felt different. There had been a glimmer of something in his eyes as he’d remarked that it was a shame Thalia had no beau to escort her.

What had it meant?

Nothing, she decided. She was ridiculous for even thinking it. He was simply being kind, as he always was. Still, Thalia allowed herself a moment to think of a night of revelry and fun … a night under the stars, surrounded by entertainments of all kinds. She hadn’t been to a dance in ages, and itched to be partnered on the dance floor—though she wasn’t certain the opportunity would present itself. If she wasn’t careful, someone might mistake her for a Haymarket strumpet and make untoward advances. It was one of the reasons she had shunned such affairs in the past. Among people like herself—shopkeepers and merchants and such—she was known, she was safe. Many had been acquainted with her father before his death, and were cordial to Thalia and her mother. But mixing with high society was a risk—one that could see her night ruined.

With a shake of her head, Thalia decided it was a decision best saved for later. It wasn’t as if there were numerous options for her in regards to costume—her clothing was well made and adequate, but by no means fine.

One thing was for certain; entertaining the idea of encountering Westerfield at Vauxhall was the height of madness. Thalia would do well to cure herself of such insanity before this evening.

* * *

Stephen leanedagainst the back of his chair, eyes closed as he latched onto the soothing sound of a razor scraping a strop. It reminded him of the waves of the ocean, producing pangs of longing for his estate off the coast of Devon. If it weren’t for the need to attend Parliament sessions, he would be there now, walking along the rocky shore and breathing in the salty air. Instead, he was forced to inhabit one of his London residences and endure the filth and smog along with the stifling humidity of summer.

He supposed he ought not complain, even in his own mind. Last year, the unusual temperatures had subjected all of England to an endless winter. Besides, being in London was worth it for the chance to step foot in Vauxhall again. He hadn’t attended a masquerade there in years, and was determined not to miss this one. Ever since his ascension to the title, duty and responsibility had steered his every move, forming the majority of his decisions. Attending the revel tonight would be the first time Stephen had chosen personal enjoyment over the needs of the dukedom. It would all be waiting for him in the morning, and he deserved a respite, however short it might be. He had been in earnest when telling Miss Ramsey that attending a Vauxhall affair was a wondrous experience.

Stephen chuckled at the thought of the witty bookshop owner, snatches of their earlier conversation coming back to him.

“Is something funny, Sahib?”

Stephen cracked an eye open to find his valet standing over him. Pavan was a tall, wiry Indian man with a severe face and piercing eyes as black as the night. He dressed in traditional kurta and jodhpur breeches, his silk, beaded slippers a match for a rich, royal purple turban. The man had been brought to England, along with a newborn Stephen by his father the duke, and his mother—an Indian noblewoman—on their return from Delhi. At the time he had served as valet for the former duke. Upon his death, Stephen had inherited Pavan along with everything else connected to the Westerfield title.

“I was only thinking, Pavan,” Stephen replied as the valet began preparing a hot towel. “Perhaps I ought to enlist more valets … five more, I think. And one could be dedicated solely to getting me into my stockings.”

Stephen’s shoulders quivered with laughter, snorts and chuckles slipped out from between his lips. Meanwhile, Pavan’s only change in expression came in the slight narrowing of his eyes.

“What is this talk of stockings?” Pavan replied, his accent thickened by irritability. “Does Sahib not approve of the way I tend to his feet?”

Stephen was hopeless, rocking in his chair as he gave in to belly-quivering laughter. “Of course, Pavan … but if someone else tends the ducal feet, it will free you to pay better attention to my hair.”

Pavan pushed him—not gently—against the back of the chair and draped his face in the hot towel. “Perhaps I should merely shave your head and cut out the need for another valet.”

Stephen could well imagine Pavan shearing him of his dark, silken locks, and it only made him laugh harder. “Forget I said anything. You have the ingenuity of ten valets, and I value you.”

Pavan made a low sound in the back of his throat but said nothing else. Stephen knew the man well enough. Just now, Pavan was beaming with pride. The man had been not only a servant to Stephen’s father, but a friend and adviser. Pavan had spent his youth in the royal courts of Indian nobility. The machinations of ruling were known to him, and he’d helped the former Westerfield make a number of important decisions. Now that his father was gone, Stephen had come to rely on Pavan as a fatherly figure.

“All is in readiness for your costume, Sahib. I added a bit more beadwork on the lapels. You will look like the nobleman that you are.”

Stephen had selected opulent Indian garb for the evening, complete with headwear and a matching mask. It wasn’t often he was able to don the dress of his mother’s homeland. “Very good, Pavan.”

“How long will we remain in Westerfield House, Sahib?” Pavan asked, quickly changing the subject. He was always shy about basking in praise.

“A few more days,” Stephen replied. “Mother craves my company, and I owe her that. I’ve spent so much time in sessions and debating politics at my club that I haven’t had much time for her. My time in London is dear, but I will always find some to spare for her.”

“You are a good son.”