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Chapter Eight
After the Duke of Dartmoor bid her adieu, Artemis immediately helped herself to another glass of champagne. She was more than a tad shaken and not in the mood for her aunt’s sniping, which went along the lines of “Artemis, how could you make such a shameless spectacle of yourself by making calf’s eyes at such a notorious character, dukedom or no?”
The additional alcohol was definitely needed.
Phoebe, who was evidently still flabbergasted by the unexpected turn of events—her cheeks were marked with high color, and her fan was fluttering faster than the wings of a hummingbird—had little to say to Artemis other than, “You waltz very well for someone who hasn’t done so in quite some time.”
And dear Lucy…she was nowhere to be seen. According to Aunt Roberta, “the silly gel” had apparently torn her hem and, much to Sir Oswald’s chagrin, had repaired to the ladies’ retiring room. That would give Artemis a valid reason to quit the ballroom as well. She certainly needed to regroup after such an unsettling encounter with the Duke of Dartmoor. Yes, ithadbeen unsettling because never, in all her life, had she enjoyed herself quite so much.
Curse Dominic Winters and his abundant charm.
Shehadactually been very close to swooning in his arms when he’d all but brazenly whispered in her ear. She’dalmostbelieved he’d been enticed and entranced by her.
However, the cold, hard, habitual cynic in her believed that he’d merely approached her because she was a veritable nobody, who would find it hard to refuse his request to dance. Especially after Lady Castledown’s formal introduction.
Yes, she’d been a convenient choice, and there was nothing more to it than that.
Artemis swiftly downed the rest of her champagne—she really should find Lucy—then handed her empty glass to a nearby footman…and when she looked up, she spotted someone else she hadn’t expected to see at the Castledowns’ ball.
At all.
It was the man who’d taken her virtue and all but ruined her a decade ago. A man who’d crushed her heart and thrown it into the gutter like it was one of yesterday’s broadsheets.
The “Honorable” Guy de Burgh.
Or was he Viscount Gascoyne now?
Artemis didn’t know and certainly didn’t care, especially when he caught sight of her too. Turning away from a tight knot of guests that appeared to be hanging on his every word, he sketched a bow and then a mocking smile broke across his handsome, hateful face. Even though he was several yards away, that didn’t matter. Gooseflesh prickled and spread beneath Artemis’s gown; she felt as if Guy de Burgh were breathing down her neck, whispering all sorts of pretty lies and false promises in her ear. His dark gaze traveled over her, lingering in all the wrong places and evoking memories that were far too painful.
To think she’d once fancied herself in love with him.
Well, not anymore. Shock at seeing Guy merged with a wave of rising resentment. The last she’d heard, he was residing in New York with his shipping heiress wife, Evangeline, helping to manage the family’s business empire. Artemis had reasoned that she’d never, ever have to see the loathsome rogue again.
But here he was, smirking at her. Dredging up emotions she’d rather keep buried. And she didn’t like it. Not one little bit.
She touched Phoebe’s arm. “Forgive me for leaving, but I need to visit the ladies’ retiring room. To check on Lucy. I won’t be long.” Then she turned and pushed through the crowd, seeking an exit from the ballroom. As much as she wanted to pick up her skirts and flee, she didn’t want to alarm anyone or create a scene. She wouldn’t give Guy the satisfaction.
In the elegant but cramped parlor that served as a retiring room, Artemis found Lucy installed on a settee in a shadowy corner. A maid sat upon a footstool at her feet, fussing with the Bruges lace at the hem while Mabel Babbington was making good use of a nearby armchair and an ottoman as she drank a cup of tea. All about them, other ladies twittered away as their hair was repaired or their own genuinely soiled or damaged gowns were put to rights. Although, a few of them did turn to pointedly stare at Artemis as she entered the room.
Artemis ignored them.
“I’m so sorry I left before your dance ended,” said Lucy when Artemis joined her. “But my father was trying to foist some American industrialist chap by the name of Whittaker onto me. Even though he had lovely blue eyes, he had the most fearsome muttonchops I’ve ever seen. They were so distracting I had to force myself to stop staring at them. And of course, we had nothing in common and I could not think of one word to say that wasn’t ‘quite’ or ‘capital’ or ‘jolly good.’ I sounded like a complete imbecile, and the whole encounter was hideously wince inducing.” She suddenly smiled and nudged Artemis’s arm. “Unlike your waltz with that devilishly handsome duke. Now that was blush inducing. I swear his gaze was fairly smoldering as he looked at you. Everyone was riveted by the sight. And the fact that he picked you over anyone else…” Lucy’s eyes filled with a wistful light. “You know, I’m quite the pragmatist when it comes to most things in life, but that was entirely romantical. You must have caught his eye, my gorgeous friend.”
“Oh. Yes. Perhaps. Red hair does tend to stand out in a crowd.” Artemis felt her cheeks heat with a scalding blush. She didn’t want to confess that she’d already met the duke on two other occasions and sparks had flown—at least, she’d thought so—so she simply added, “And you’re right. He is very handsome. But it was just one dance so it hardly signifies. And then there’s all that scandal attached to his name. I’m sure that’s the reason everyone was watching us.” She briefly recounted what Aunt Roberta had told her. “I’m not inclined to believe any of the rumors about him though.”
“Neither am I,” said Lucy. “Of course, I only read about it in the newspapers last year, but the coroner’s verdict was good enough for me. Society is far too cruel sometimes.”
“Indeed, it is,” agreed Artemis.And so are so-called gentlemen like Guy de Burgh.
After accepting a cup of tea from dear Miss Babbington, Artemis wondered again if shehadseen something about the duke, and his poor late wife, in the paper so that was why their names sounded familiar.
But no, there was something else… She frowned as she sipped her tea.
Juliet… Dartmoor…
And then she remembered. It was as though someone had turned on a gaslight in her mind. During her debut Season, she’d heard whispers that Guy de Burgh’s sister had been supremely well connected. A duchess.
The Duchess of Dartmoor.
