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“I’ve never been to a bloody ball in my entire life.”
Kitty titled her head in confusion. “Surely you’ve received a plethora of invitations since returning to London. You are Clifton, after all.”
He had, and then immediately threw them into the fire. While before, he might have reveled in the opportunity to strut about a Ton ballroom and throw his unwelcome ascension right in everyone’s snobby little faces, doing so held little appeal after everything at Renwood. “I’ve no interest in mingling with that set.”
“Clifton has attended no events that I’m aware of,” Ashford said to Kitty.
God, he despised hearing that name in reference to himself. “And I don’t plan to.”
She looked at him with wide eyes. “None?”
“None,” he replied with finality.
The couple looked at him in unison and then at each other. “It’s her, isn’t it?” Kitty mused to her husband.
Ashford inclined his head in agreement. “What else could he be running from?”
“I’m not running from anything,” Arthur replied, bristling as they merely rose dual incredulous eyebrows. “And refrain from speaking of me in the third person while I am standing in front of you.”
“Yes, definitely her,” was all Ashford said.
“Don’t you have some tables to patronize tonight?” Arthur grumbled. “Loitering is against the rules at The White Heather.”
“Indeed we do,” Ashford drawled. He gently tugged Kitty’s arm. “Come along, darling, let us have our fun and leave him to his moping.”
“I am not moping,” Arthur ground out.
“Whatever you say.” Ashford turned and guiding a giggling Kitty back down the hall.
The duchess stopped them a few feet away and whispered something to her husband before trotting back up to Arthur. “I think you should know,” she said quietly, “She wants to see you. Give her a chance.” With those parting words, the woman returned to her husband, and the couple rounded a corner, leaving him alone with those painfully tempting parting words. Francesca wanted to see him.
But did he? Dare he?
**
Francesca fiddled with the empty dance card at her wrist, melancholy seeping through her as another set began. A group of fresh debutantes giggled within earshot, their cruel words barely concealed by halfhearted whispers.
“She’s still trying? This is what, the third season?”
“Fourth.”
“And to show her face after last year…”
“Pitiful, indeed. Just look how sad she is.”
Were her upset indeed only due to her lack of partners, Francesca might have been able to put up a stronger front. No, her despondence was over one thing in particular. One man in particular, whom she hadn’t even glimpsed in the weeks since returning to London. Difficult to seduce someone when they never attended the same events as you. While Francesca knew Arthur would be wary of society, she had at least expected him to show himself at one of Sophie or Kitty’s informal dinner parties. The two women had been conducting them often in the hopes that she would have an opportunity to speak with him, but the man had remained absent from every single one, making it more than obvious that she was the cause. She’d grown desperate, accepting just about every invitation thrown her way, as paltry as they were, in the off chance that he would decide to brave a Ton ball.
“Fat chance of that,” Francesca muttered irritably.
“Don’t despair, my dear. Someone will see past your scandal, I’m sure of it.” Her mother came to stand beside her, placing a confronting hand on Francesca’s shoulder.
“I don’t think so, mama,” she replied quietly. Her parents knew nothing of her relations with Arthur or what had happened at the house party and were still hoping for a match with an eligible gentleman. Their endless patience was something she would be forever thankful for, even as she felt the burn of shame for failing them so spectacularly.
“Are you sure you are well?” Her mother peered at her with concerned eyes. “You’ve been acting strange since your visit to Festoon Hall.”
Francesca shook her head, a lie tumbling easily from her. “I was merely shocked that we were only up there because of Lord Clifton.” It still felt bizarre to refer to Arthur as such.
“That was a rather sordid affair, wasn’t it? Poor Lord Clifton, to have had his inheritance hidden for so long. His refusal to leave his business has made quite the stir. I wonder if he will ever formally show himself to the Ton.”
