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“Oh no.” She studied it. “I—I suppose that we must accept?”

“It would likely be seen as rude to decline.” Besides, the governor’s office had helped in his investigation of the gunman. But he couldn’t tell Pomona that, of course.

She sat eyeing the thick cream card as though it might bite her hand. Then she sighed heavily. “Well. If we must, we must.”

“No doubt it will be a pleasant enough evening—if perhaps a little dull. Why should you not wish to go?”

She stared at him. “How can you possibly… Oh, never mind.”

She seemed almost as upset about this invitation as she’d been by the gunman. “I realize that the last time you attended an entertainment… Well. He cleared his throat. “That is to say, the incident at Lady Beaufort’s musicale was…”

Pomona’s expression was now incredulous.

“I am certain that the Archduke’s ball will be a most pleasant affair, without any… er…” He broke off again.

“I see.” She rose. “Well. Do not worry. I shall be certain to stay out of the library.”

“That is not at all what I…”

She swept out of the breakfast room, leaving the invitation lying on the table.

Chapter Thirteen

As Pomona dressed, her stomach hurt. This was the first formal event that she would attend as the Duchess of March. And of course, it was also the first time that she’d attended an evening party since the night of Lady Beaufort’s musicale—not to mention the first ball since her own disastrous come-out, which had been canceled before the dancing even began.

Would anyone here have heard the rumors about her? Would they all be gossiping about how a plain bluestocking whose father had nearly bankrupted his family had entrapped England’s most handsome and eligible young duke into marriage?

She tried to tell herself that they wouldn’t. But she couldn’t seem to make herself believe it.

“Your grace looks most beautiful,” ventured her maid, checking the placement of a pearl-adorned comb in Pomona’s upswept hair.

“Thank you, Harding,” said Pomona automatically. But then she caught sight of her own reflection. Did this antique silvered looking glass have some uncanny power of flattery that she’d never noticed until now? Or could this actually be how she looked?

Despite her long hours in the library, the Venetian sun seemed to have brightened strands of hair near her face. In her reflection, her eyes looked dark and mysterious. And despite the anxiety that she felt inwardly, her lower lip seemed to have a curve to it, as though she had some private source of amusement that was causing a smile to play about the corners of her mouth.

She might almost have thought that it wasn’t her at all, and was instead some long-ago lady of the house—a proud Venetian beauty of the past who’d sat in the rooftop altana to lighten her hair, perhaps. Still, she was wearing the ballgown that Lady Theodosia had helped her choose in London. She leaned closer to the glass, adjusting one earbob and frowning. Her reflection frowned back. That was rather a good plot idea, actually… a magic mirror that allowed some medieval lady to communicate with its present owner… Of course, it might be rather too fanciful.

There was a knock on the dressing room doorframe. “I believe that I am to have the honor of accompanying her grace the Duchess of March this evening?”

It was West, in a silk evening suit of a black jacket and buff knee breeches. The occasion was formal so he carried a chapeau-bras tucked under his arm.

She paused. How was it possible that she was married to this man—this man whose dark flashing eyes and strong jawline and broad shoulders turned heads everywhere they went? Of course, he was West… who was often annoying, but…

“Are you finished dressing?”

“I… I was detained rather late at my work table and I…” She glanced uncertainly at her reflection again. “But I suppose so. Yes.”

He advanced farther into the room. “I hope that you are not overworking yourself again.”

“Well, I underworked myself for months, so this is the price that I must pay.” Wait. She’d said too much.

His frown was puzzled. “Pomona, I….” He gave his head a slight shake. “Well. I find it difficult to believe that you have ever ‘underworked’ yourself. Indeed, you…” He broke off again. “Well. Whatever you are doing, I do know that you spend many hours working at it. And yet, from the perfection of your toilette, you look as though you have done nothing for days but prepare for this evening.”

Her stomach did a slow flip. The cold anxiety began to drain away from her body.

When she’d first met him, West had always been kind. Not all of Charles’s friends had appreciated his unsophisticated younger sister lurking in the Alford House library. Some of them had rolled their eyes and waited for her to leave—even though it was the one room in the house where she felt safe. But West hadn’t behaved that way. Sometimes, he’d even told her funny stories about the politicians he encountered at his office, or asked her opinion on some news story. He’d never talked down to her, or made her feel foolish. He’d made her feel… seen.

He stepped closer. “You need not be at all anxious about the evening. The other guests are chiefly diplomats and dignitaries. You are charming and intelligent, and you have met people like them before with your great aunt. And no doubt your elderly gallants amongst the Austrian officers will be there too.”