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“What I seek is Mr. Samuel Carmichael. He promised a tour of your fine establishment.”
Curiosity gleamed in the man’s eyes but was swiftly stifled.
“Mr. Carmichael is generally here at this time, but we have not yet seen him today.”
Disappointment washed through her.
“Oh.”
She’d assumed he would be as eager as she, and therefore waiting.
“I could provide a tour, Your Grace?”
She shook her head.
“No, but thank you. I will wait.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
Ellie strode away, attempting to instil purpose in her step when she had none. She crossed to a line of shelves and made a show of studying the spines before her, but didn’t read a one, her thoughts too focused on where Samuel might be. Not that it mattered, really, as he would appear at any moment and apologise. And she would instantly forgive him, for what did it matter why he wasn’t here once he stood before her?
She wandered, not heading up to the second level, for fear of missing Samuel, but finding a large clock set among the books. She marked the time as exactly half past two and smiled. Why, he wasn’t even late.
Her slow steps took her about the bottom floor of the library, where richly dressed men and women browsed shelves, or sat quietly to read. In a slow but steady stream, members came and went, some returning with books, others taking books out. Back at the clock, she noted fifteen minutes had passed. Surely, any moment, Samuel would stroll through the door. She went around again.
After six circuits of the Temple of the Muses’ main floor, Ellie strode straight backed from the building. She could feel eyes watching her, and imagined especially the scrutiny of the man behind the counter. Why had she told him her business there? Somehow, knowing the nameless gentleman must guess she’d been stood up only drove the knife of anger and sorrow that much deeper, and added embarrassment.
Not that a Duchess should care what a man behind a counter thought. But then, Ellie wasn’t really a Duchess.
She dashed her gloved hands across her cheeks as she sought a hackney to take her back to Lizzy May’s grand London home, wondering if Samuel would have dared stand up a real member of the peerage.
As she searched for a conveyance, worry pooled in the pit of her stomach. Samuel seemed like an honest, reliable gentleman. He’d warned her about his brother, after all, even though the conversation had great potential for awkwardness. If he hadn’t arrived, maybe something terrible was wrong.
How could she find out? Who would know?
Or had he simply forgotten their hastily arranged meeting? If he could forget plans made with her so easily, he definitely did not return her regard.
Or had he somehow discovered the truth and, instead of being happy, become angry? But how could he find out? Only the Dowager and Ellie knew, and the Dowager wouldn’t blemish her name by admitting to the deception.
Ellie secured a hackney, a whirl of miserable emotions her companions for the ride back, foremost among them, worry for Samuel.
Chapter Eight
Samuel escorted his mother into the ballroom, struggling against a frown. Though he’d promised weeks ago to accompany her, he very much did not wish to. In an attempt to avoid it, he’d sent word to all Richard’s haunts, except Yvette’s empty house, trying to secure his brother to act in his stead, but Richard either had not received his messages or, more likely, had chosen to ignore Samuel’s pleas.
Samuel resisted the urge to look about the room for the Duchess of Aspen. She would certainly be in attendance. As much as he wished to see her, he couldn’t stomach the thought of looking upon her. He should have left a note, at least, at the Muses. He knew that. But what could he have written? A lie, such as, ‘I forgot a prior engagement,’ wouldn’t do. That, he might have sent to her home, were it the truth and his intentions innocent, but neither was true. Any words near the truth were unfit to write to a wedded woman. He’d considered a simple, ‘I will not arrive,’ but that sounded overly harsh. Not at fault for the aspirations of his foolish heart, the Duchess shouldn’t be treated harshly.
Except for that one look at the theatre, the memory of which sent his pulse racing, she’d been nothing but convivial and kind. With no additional evidence as to any affection from her, that look could be the product of his vivid, hopeful mind. The only way to discover the truth would be to… but no. He’d decided he would not see her, for what good could the truth for which he hoped actually do? The Duchess of Aspen was a married woman.
“Take a turn about the room with me, dear,” his mother murmured. “We will see if I sight any of my friends.”
She turned them right, away from the arch leading to refreshments.
A glance showed several of his mother’s closer acquaintances in that direction, to their left, and Samuel gave in to his frown.
“It seems to me we are rather avoiding your friends.”
In the centre of the room, couples already danced in long lines, skipping near, then back. Turning, drawing away, heading to the arm of another for a swirl before re-joining their original partner. Samuel had never noticed before quite how alike were dancing and romance. If only he knew who his original partner might be, he would gladly return to her to remove visions of his figurative twirl with the Duchess of Aspen from his mind.
