Page 28 of An Arranged Marriage with a Mad Marquess (Marriage Mart Scandals #3)

The young lady who had walked solidly into Henry turned and stared up at him; grey eyes wide and shocked. She was rather pretty, Henry noted absently, with a small, squarish face, a delicate nose, and those striking grey eyes. He quickly dismissed the thought.

He was annoyed for many reasons—the oppressive heat, the obligation to attend a ball where he knew few of the guests, and the constant worry over his younger sister—and the added irritation of being walked into was too much for him. He tried not to scowl, but it was hard.

“I beg your pardon,” the woman said softly. She dropped a curtsey, her grey eyes still holding his gaze.

Henry blinked confusedly. The young lady did not seem frightened, or even daunted. Her apology—while sincere—did not sound in the least worried. That was strange. Since he had barely attended a ball since his father’s passing, people had whispered about him. The whispers, which ranged from allegations of corruption against his father, to bizarre tales about himself and whatever dark dealings he was said to be involved in, tended to make women afraid.

But this woman was not afraid at all.

“Think nothing of it,” he murmured gruffly. “Nobody was harmed.”

“No,” the woman said lightly. “Though I might have been.” Her tone was slightly accusing, and, to his further annoyance, he blushed. He had not thought to apologise himself, and he had been as much in her way as she was in his.

“I trust you were not hurt, madam?” he managed to say. It was polite, though he was annoyed at himself that she had to remind him of that.

“No, I was not,” she said softly.

“Good.” He inclined his head, turning away. As he did so, the footman who was serving drinks at the refreshments table, bumped a glass that balanced on the edge of the table. Henry reached out to grab it; a reflex from when he was younger and helping to look after Charlotte, who is nine years his junior. As he grabbed the glass, he blinked in surprise. Someone else had grabbed it at the same instant. It was the grey-eyed young lady.

“Apologies,” she said hastily, withdrawing her fingers from his own.

“No matter,” Henry said in a tight voice. His heart was thudding. Her fingertips were cold and very soft, and their touch raced down his nerves like fire. He withdrew his hand, nodding briefly at the footman, who was, for some reason, apologising profusely though he had done nothing.

The grey-eyed young lady smiled. Henry stared at her. She was pretty when her face was neutral, but when she smiled, her smile stole his breath. Her pretty face seemed to light up and those eyes, which had seemed cool and distant, now sparkled with an intriguing mystery, as though they held depths he hadn’t yet begun to fathom.

He cleared his throat, the sound awkward in the stillness. The air had grown unexpectedly tight around him, though he couldn’t quite place why.

“May I inquire as to your name, my lady?” he asked. He was not sure why he felt such a deep desire to know it.

“My name is Miss Rutland, Your Grace,” she murmured.

“I am Henry Alford, Duke of Atherley,” he answered.

“Your Grace,” she said again, dropping a formal, slightly stiff curtsey. He bowed.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Rutland,” he murmured. He found himself searching for something else to say, an unfamiliar desire to continue the conversation growing within him. It was strange, considering the many balls he had attended in the past week—far more than he had in years—and yet, he had felt no inclination to engage with anyone.

“As am I, Your Grace,” she replied. Her eyes held his with an intensity that both surprised and intrigued him. There was a wry lilt in her voice, and a peculiar look in her eyes—both assessing and a touch playful. He could not quite decipher the meaning of either, but he was aware, with some irritation, that she had addressed him as “Your Grace” even before he had introduced himself. It was not unusual for a duke’s reputation to precede him, and he found himself wondering just how much she already knew of him. He was about to ask when Lady Brookshaw nearly collided with him.

“Your Grace!” Lady Brookshaw said in a theatrically loud tone. “Why! I do apologise.” She swept a curtsey that he had to admit would not have looked out of place in St. James’ Palace. While he disliked Lady Brookshaw intensely, he had to admit that she was always a model of elegance and style.

“Think nothing of it,” Henry grunted. It was, it seemed, becoming almost fashionable to walk into him. It seemed everyone was doing it. He looked around, about to share that thought with Miss Rutland. Something told him it would amuse her.

She had vanished.

That struck him as annoying, though he could not quite place why. He had been looking forward to conversing with her. In a room filled with faces he barely knew, hers had been a rare, interesting, and rather pleasant one. He scanned the crowd, his gaze lingering as if he might catch sight of her once more.

“Your Grace,” Lady Brookshaw said in a low, cultured tone. “May I tell you how ravishing dear Lady Charlotte looks? Why, she is the essence of a young debutante!” She smiled a wide smile that struck him as entirely false. He did not like her, and he was absolutely sure that she did not like him either. She was always hinting that his father had been involved in some dark scandal, and that made him angry. His father was no longer there to defend himself.

“Thank you, Lady Brookshaw,” he replied tightly. Lady Brookshaw was close to the age that his own mother would have been—had she lived—and though she tried to act as though she had some interest in his family, he always felt as though that interest was malicious. He bowed to her formally. “Pray, excuse me,” he murmured. “I must consult with my cousin, James.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Lady Brookshaw replied, dropping an elegant curtsey and smiling her false smile.

Henry hurried off. He was sure he had been barely polite to her, but he could not help it. He needed to get away. He looked around the room, heart thudding. He was not looking for James, his cousin, so much as for Charlotte. She was a young debutante—as Lady Brookshaw had pointed out—and it was his duty to protect and chaperone her. He had lost sight of her and his gaze swept the room, fear for her making his heart race.

His gaze caught on a head of glossy dark hair near the doorway, and he breathed out a sigh of relief. Charlotte was there, talking to two young women whom he thought he distantly recognised as her friends, Lady Henrietta and Lady Emsley. He hurried through the crowd, shouldering his way through towards her.

“Ah! Your Grace,” a voice said at his elbow as he approached them. He spun round to find the Earl of Edgefield standing at his side. He winced. Besides Lady Brookshaw, the man was one of the people in high society he trusted least.

Around Henry’s own age, Edgefield had a notorious reputation as both a gambler and a frequent visitor to the more disreputable public houses of London. He was the sort of rakish figure many found fashionably amusing, but Henry had always suspected there was something far more sinister beneath the surface—something his reputation alone did not quite capture. He gave the man a hard stare.

“Lord Edgefield.” He inclined his head, the merest bow.

“Lady Charlotte,” Lord Edgefield said, his voice low and melodic as he bowed to Henry’s younger sister.

“Lord Edgefield,” Henry said tightly. He could barely contain his anger and he put himself forcibly between the disreputable man and his sister, blocking him from approaching her. “I was about to escort my sister to the refreshments table. If you will excuse us?” His gaze was hard. His tone bristled.

Lord Edgefield lifted a brow, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. “Of course, old chap,” he said lightly. “Of course.”

Henry scowled. He was not on familiar terms with Lord Edgefield, though the fellow had been part of the circle that had gathered around Henry’s late father, and the fellow took liberties calling him “old chap”. Lady Brookshaw was also involved in his circle, and that was one reason why he disliked them both so profoundly. He had always had the suspicion that whatever underhand dealings his father had become involved in—if that was true, and he had little enough proof—they were involved in the same dealings. Lady Brookshaw certainly knew something about it, because she lost no time in hinting at it every time she saw him. Henry was less certain about Lord Edgefield and his involvement in it, though the two of them were so often together that he felt sure that if Lady Brookshaw knew, then Lord Edgefield must do so also.

“Come, Charlotte,” he said lightly, trying to hide the anger in his tone.

“Brother? Have I done something wrong?” Charlotte asked softly as they crossed the floor towards the refreshments table. Her large brown eyes were full of concern, her brow creased in a frown.

“No. No, sister. Of course not,” Henry said swiftly. “You did nothing. I just...” he sighed. He could not shelter Charlotte from certain notions, though he wished that he could. “I simply do not believe that Lord Edgefield is the sort of man who should be conversing with young debutantes.” He tried to explain, feeling awkward.

“No! Nor do I,” Charlotte said with a giggle. “He smelled strange, and I did not care for his tone of voice.” Her sweet face crinkled.

Henry breathed out. He should have known that his sister would have noticed something like that. The strange smell was brandy, and Henry had noticed too. And he should have guessed that the dangerous tone in the fellow’s voice would communicate itself to Charlotte before even he would notice it. She was a highly sensitive and intelligent girl.

“Thank you, Charlotte,” he said lightly. “Yes, you are right on both counts.”

She giggled again. “May I go and find Henriette and Juliana now?” she asked swiftly. “I promise we shall keep well away from such horrid men.” Her gaze held his, her brown eyes asking him solemnly for permission.

He grinned. “Of course, Charlotte,” he said swiftly. “But pray do not go out of sight.”

“Hurrah!” she exclaimed, her expression shifting instantly from the seriousness of a debutante to the bright, carefree joy of a young lady. With that, she dashed off across the ballroom, pausing only to flash him a dazzling smile before twirling toward the doorway where her friends awaited her.

Henry sighed again. He wished, as he did often, that his mother were still with them. She would have been the right person to protect and guide Charlotte through the world of London as a debutante. He felt confused and drained. He knew he had to strike a balance between shielding her and granting her the freedom she deserved, yet he had no clear sense of what that balance looked like, nor how to achieve it.

He gazed around the ballroom. True to what he had asked her, Charlotte remained in the doorway, within sight. The three young ladies would offer protection enough for each other, and Lady Emsley’s husband would doubtless also protect them. Charlotte was safe and he allowed his gaze to drift around the ballroom, the knot in his shoulders loosening a little with the knowledge that Charlotte was protected. His gaze moved tiredly over the crowd, then stopped as he blinked.

Miss Rutland was a few paces away from him, by the wall near the alcove.

Before he could think too clearly, his cheeks lifted in a smile. She saw the smile and her eyes flared wide; shock apparent on her features. He bit his lip, not wanting to grin again; this time in amusement. The shocked expression on her face was utterly at odds with her calm exterior.

He drifted closer to her, his gaze shifting toward James, who was standing nearby, conversing with a woman who had thick auburn hair. Henry hoped to speak with his cousin—James could help him keep a watchful eye on Charlotte.

However, as he neared, he heard James speaking earnestly to the young woman. From what he could catch, they were discussing the history of democracy in Ancient Greece. Henry frowned, perplexed. Surely not! He must be mistaken. He shook his head to clear it, then took another step closer.

“Miss Rutland,” he greeted the lady, who was standing close to James and the auburn-haired woman; too close for him to walk past without acknowledging her presence. It was only polite, he reminded himself. His cheeks glowed faintly as she dropped a curtsey, that same unreadable smile on her face.

“Good evening, Your Grace. It seems we are fated to cross paths more than once this evening.” Her tone was cool.

“Not quite literally, this time,” Henry replied lightly, his lips curving into a wry smile.

Miss Rutland grinned. Her smile was bright, amused and genuine and it lit her eyes in a way that knocked the wind from him. He gazed at her, astonished.

“Well said, Your Grace.”

He smiled back. He could not help it. She was amusing and clearly intelligent, and those were qualities he could not help liking. All the women in his family were intelligent and amusing, and even had they not been, those were things he looked for in friends.

“I seem to have become a favoured target for collisions,” he began, recalling that he had wanted to share the story of Lady Brookshaw.

She giggled. “How so?” she asked warmly.

He shrugged. “No idea. It just seems that people bump into me with alarming frequency of late.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Mayhap you’ve been positioning yourself in rather awkward spots?”

He chuckled. Her boldness amused him. Nobody else he knew would have addressed him so honestly.

“Mayhap,” he acknowledged, inclining his head.

“Henry!” a voice called out, interrupting him. “Why! There you are! I was searching for you and dear Charlotte.”

Henry turned to find his Aunt Margaret at his elbow. He beamed at the older woman, feeling genuine warmth in his heart.

“Aunt Margaret.” He bowed. “I believe Charlotte is over there by the doors, should you be seeking her?”

“Oh, good.” Aunt Margaret smiled. “I had thought to join you both as we exit the room for dinner. It’s frightfully crowded in here.”

“Of course, Aunt. Of course,” Henry replied, nodding briskly. He would be pleased to escort his dear aunt to dinner. He bent his arm at the elbow to support her arm while they walked towards the doors. She smiled up at him, her dark eyes sparkling with warmth.

“Thank you, dear nephew,” she murmured. “You always were such a dear.”

Henry’s heart twisted. His aunt was his father’s sister, and in some ways, she reminded him of Papa. Her dark brown eyes—so wise and knowing—reminded him of his father’s own level stare. Papa had been so warm, so intelligent, so full of life. Henry could barely believe that he had been involved in corrupt dealings of any sort. But there was some tenuous evidence of that, and Henry had hired a man to investigate it further. He had to know the truth.

He glanced around to see if Miss Rutland was there, but she was talking to a grey-haired lady whom he recognised as the host, Lady Whitmore, who was also a dear friend of his aunt. He shook his head, trying to ignore Miss Rutland’s bright smile at the older woman, and focused on finding Charlotte. It was time to escort his aunt and his dear sister to dinner.