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Rosaline sank into her seat. “Yes. She was friends with my mother, before we were disgraced. She was one of the first people to start cutting us in the streets. She was very cruel. Do I have to see her?”
“I’m afraid so, as she’s our hostess. Not for long, though. There’ll just be a few pleasantries, then we’ll move on.”
“But she knows I’m coming, doesn’t she?”
“Not exactly. I dropped enough hints for her to send an invitation The Duke of Keswick and Guest, as I suppose she wants to see if I really am courting.”
Rosaline shivered. “I don’t want to do this.”
She’d expected a lecture, a reminder of the money she would earn, a reminder of her promise. Instead, Lord Benedict leaned forward, taking her cold, gloved hand in his.
His hand was warm, and he’d taken off his glove. Rosaline suddenly wished that she had his hand on her bare skin. Perhaps on her hand, for starters. Then his hand would creep up her arm, all the way to her shoulder. He’d run his fingertips across the soft, delicate skin of her neck, then dip lower, perhaps under the neckline of her gown…
Rosaline, get a hold of yourself!Rosaline scolded herself. She pressed her thighs together to get rid of that ache again.
It didn’t work.
“It’ll be fine, I promise.” Lord Benedict continued. “We needn’t stay too long; these occasions are awful anyway. I’ll be by your side at all times, and we can leave soon after supper. Think of that – think of supper. No more tripe.”
Rosaline pulled a face. “Ugh. Even the word makes me feel sick.”
Then the carriage stopped, and Rosaline realized with a stab of nausea and panic that they were really here, that she really was going to have to get out of the carriage and walk into that brightly lit, overcrowded house.
Benedict climbed out first, holding out a hand to help her down. Rosaline’s dress was new and unfamiliar, not quite as comfortable and practical as her other gowns, and she moved more slowly than before.
Still, a brief glance around guests climbing out of their carriages told her the same story. Ladies with impossibly tight corsets were wheezing, desperately trying to catch their breaths. Ladies with too-high hair were doing a sort of balancing act as they walked, hanging on the arms of their friends or husbands. One gentleman with high, stiff collar points was huddled behind a carriage, trying feverishly to stem the bleeding where his sharp collar had rubbed and scratched at the underneath of his ear lobe until it bled.
“Take my arm,” Lord Benedict said in a low voice, “And don’t speak to anyone unless you’ve been introduced, is that clear?”
“Yes, I know.”
She walked up the stone steps towards the entrance as if in a daze. A footman stood in the doorway, announcing the guests as they arrived. He glanced their way, and Lord Benedict murmured their names under his breath.
“The Duke of Keswick, and Miss Rosaline Wyre!” he boomed out.
In reality, their arrival wasn’t more than a ripple on a pond, but to the already nervous Rosaline, she felt as though the Red Sea had just parted in front of her.
Ladies turned, smiling coyly at Lord Benedict. Their smiles faded as their gaze landed on Rosaline. They looked her up and down, looking for flaws in her hair, her dress, her face, her demeanor. Then they exchanged significant looks with each other and turned away.
Gentlemen raised their quizzing glasses to look at her with interest. Rosaline liked that even less than the spiteful stares of the ladies. The gentlemen spent a lot of time eyeing her figure, glancing up at Lord Benedict as if to reassure themselves of his taste. They leered at her when she caught them staring.
Then their moment in the spotlight was over. The next guests were announced, and Lord Benedict led her forward into the ballroom.
“See?” he said under his breath. “Not so bad.”
“Not so bad? You weren’t…” Rosaline broke off abruptly. A tall, stocky woman was sailing towards them, the flopping feathers on top of her head giving her at least an extra foot in height.
“Your Grace, what a pleasure.” The woman said pleasantly, dropping into a lopsided curtsey. Lord Benedict bowed.
“Lady March, the pleasure is all mine. I believe you’ve met Miss Wyre.”
The Viscountess’ cold, piggy eyed landed squarely on Rosaline. “Yes, I am familiar with the Wyre family, although I believed that they were no longer accepted in polite society.”
“Acruel rumor, madam.” Lord Benedict replied, his cold smile never faltering. “I daresay you have heard of my plans to make Miss Wyre my duchess one day?”
The Viscountess flinched as though she’d been struck. “I had heard, but… well, I scarcely believed it. You shall break many hearts, Your Grace, including that of my own dear Jane.”
“I’m sure that Miss Jane will be quite alright.” Lord Benedict looked pointedly to Rosaline, then back to the Viscountess.
