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“You needn’t spout such nonsense,” she said briskly, turning her fan in her hands. “I am satisfied with my looks and always have been. I simply get silly when I compare myself to my sisters.”
“Here’s the comparison: Lucy is beautiful like a diamond. You are beautiful like a rose.” He glanced at her fancy headdress. “A rose that has pink feathers sticking out of its head, that is.”
Finally, she laughed, for he was being absurd and she was being a fool. It was she who loved roses; he thought them a frivolous waste of time. Had he said she was beautiful like iron ore or a factory or a pile of work, well, then she could be pleased. Instead, she felt lonelier than she ever had before.
A cool breeze caressed them: A footman had opened the door. Cassandra met Joshua’s eyes and reminded herself that she had achieved what she came for, and everything was exactly as it ought to be. He had made her no promises and told her no lies.
If her heart was breaking, it was nobody’s fault but her own.
“Excuse me, love birds,” Lucy called from the doorway. “Is this ball tonight? Or shall we ask them to move it to tomorrow so you can finish canoodling?”
* * *
The first dancewas underway by the time they arrived. Cassandra deposited Lucy with the duke and duchess and went her own way. Of course she did, Joshua thought, watching her pink feathers bob through the crush. That was what they did now, and a few clumsy, belated compliments would do nothing to change that. Joshua felt at odds with his own body. He wanted to blame the cravat, the coat, the ridiculous breeches, but he knew it was not that. He seemed to have developed a talent for doing everything wrong.
He wandered around the ballroom aimlessly, sending people scattering with his scowl. Every now and then he caught a glimpse of her. Saw Dammerton approach her; saw her smile. Someone blocked Joshua’s view and when it cleared, the duke was writing on her dance card.
Bloody Dammerton, flirting with his wife, asking her to dance. She liked dancing, Joshua knew, and she was good at it too. Dancing had always seemed such a waste of time, but now he wished he had learned. She would like that. Or not. Dancing did not make babies either.
What an idiot he was, staying away from her. They only had a few more days until Sir Gordon got Bolderwood’s case quashed: Was he going to waste the time sulking? He remembered her philosophy about cut flowers: They did not last but one could enjoy them while they bloomed.
The dance ended and the guests milled about in the echoing chatter of a room suddenly bereft of music.
“What the hell are you doing here?” came a familiar snarl by his shoulder.
Joshua almost groaned at the tedium of another fight with his father.
“Good evening, Father.”
“You promised to stay away from us,” Treyford said.
“This ball is hosted by my wife’s grandmother, and my wife’s sister is making her debut. You knew I would be here, soyouought to have stayed away.”
“You ought not be in London at all.”
Isaac had been right: Treyford hated him because he was a reminder of his shame. Which meant that, under his bluster, the man was ashamed.
Joshua opened his mouth to answer but stopped when a new, excited hush claimed the crowd.
The Duke of Sherbourne, nigh on seventy but spry and alert, claimed the middle of the empty dance floor, Lucy by his side, her fingers resting on his. The sight of the young lady, graceful beyond measure and beautiful beyond words, sent a murmur of admiration through the guests. Joshua felt a broad smile break over his face, his chest swollen with undeserved pride. He scanned the crowd for Cassandra—this was her moment as much as Lucy’s—but his seeking eyes could not find her. His smile faded, his pride deflated, his eyes searched. What a selfish fool he was; he should be at her side.
The duke released Lucy, raised his hands for silence, and then filled it as only an experienced orator could.
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen. It is my great honor and delight to present to you—my granddaughter, Miss Lucy Lightwell.”
The crowd applauded politely, murmuring to each other, eating the newcomer up, as the orchestra struck up the rich strains of a slow waltz. The duke bowed, Lucy curtsied, and together they danced across the floor.
Joshua searched fruitlessly for Cassandra again, an odd panic edging through his limbs, and was about to go looking for her when Treyford spoke again.
“Is that the girl?” Treyford said, his eyes on Lucy, a pensive faraway look on his face. “She looks a bit like Susan.”
Lady Susan Lightwell, the youngest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Sherbourne, Treyford’s first wife, and Lucy and Cassandra’s aunt. Perhaps Treyford had gone to that time, thirty-odd years ago now, when he was eighteen and Lady Susan sixteen, and the pair had eloped and then—What?
Joshua knew nothing more. He did not know why the pair had eloped or why they had parted; how Lady Susan, the Protestant daughter of an English duke, had wound up in an Irish Catholic convent for another sixteen years; or whether Treyford had truly believed Lady Susan was dead when he married Joshua’s mother. The reason Joshua did not know was that he had never asked. He had been too angry to so much as wonder.
Cassandra had seen that he was angry, and he had denied it, but she had been right. Again.
More couples joined the waltz, and he finally spotted his wife, watching Lucy with a mix of pride and sorrow, exchanging the occasional comment with her tall, haughty friend, Lady Hardbury.
