Page 11 of Courting Scandal With The Duke

He winced. ‘No, my dear. I am here on business. Financial matters. For my family. But I am delighted to see you here and looking beautiful as always. I have missed you.’

Financial matters were always a problem in his family. No wonder he sounded tense. ‘As I have missed you.’

Charles had been in Vienna and had often accompanied her to various events when Helmut had been too busy. Which was nearly all the time. It was only after her husband’s death that she discovered he had not been occupied with important matters of state but rather busy with his mistress.

While she could not blame Charles for her husband’s unfaithfulness, she had wished he had informed her what was going on instead of trying to shield her from embarrassment, as he’d told her afterwards. He had been most apologetic when she’d confronted him about keeping her husband’s secrets.

But then he and her husband were family and Barbara was an outsider. She shouldn’t really expect anything else.

They reached the top of the stairs, handed over their cards and the butler introduced them. They walked into the ballroom together.

‘I hope we will see something of you while you are in London,’ she said.

‘Try keeping me away.’

She laughed. He had always been full of flirtatious nonsense, but it had meant nothing. They had never been more than friends.

‘I mean it,’ he said with an intensity that took her aback. ‘I have never seen you look so beautiful. It must be the English air.’

‘The English rain, you mean,’ she said lightly, to hide her discomfort.

‘I am surprised you are not wearing the Upsal parure.’

The Upsal parure, a set of rubies and diamonds, some of which she had worn to Almack’s, had been the only item she had inherited from her second husband.

‘I thought this gown dazzling enough,’ she said.

His tilted his head in agreement. Then laughed. It sounded a little forced, she thought. ‘I hope you did not sell them?’

‘Certainly not.’ At least not yet.

For some odd reason Charles looked relieved, but the expression was gone in a moment so she could not be sure that she had read it aright.

Against his will, Xavier glanced from his perusal of the dance floor towards the entrance upon hearing announcement of the Countess of Lipsweiger and Upsal.

An animated smile wreathed the Countess’s expression.

His heart stumbled at the sight. The reason for her smile was a blond-haired gentleman with as fine a set of whiskers as Xavier had ever seen, who was escorting her in.

The warmth of her gaze on this stranger caused an odd tightening in Xavier’s chest.

Nonsense. Yet he could not look away as the Countess picked her way delicately through the crowds at the doorway with cat-like grace, her gold tissue gown clinging to her curves with each sinuous step.

Stunning yet unusual. Lovely yet not pretty. Brash yet… Enough.

A stir around her caught his attention. Whispers rippled through the assembled company as gazes turned her way.

What now?

Lord North was standing nearby. His wife came dashing up to the peer’s side and whispered in his ear. ‘Good Lord,’ North said with a chortle.

Xavier raised his eyebrows in question.

‘She’s painted her toenails,’ Lady North said in scandalised tones. She lowered her voice. ‘Not even a member of the demi-monde would be so daring, I am told!’ Both shock and outrage coloured her voice.

As usual, the reaction of the ton to anything that they thought not quite the thing surfaced swiftly. Clearly none of them had been to Paris recently. Xavier had been there a few months ago, and painted toenails had been quite the rage, and no doubt it would be here before long.

Fashion. Such fickle nonsense.

A spurt of anger on the Countess’s behalf surprised him. Devil take it. The woman was none of his concern. He simply didn’t like injustice, that was all.

Lady North scurried off to join a group of matrons who looked to be in high dudgeon .

North smirked. ‘Now that has stirred up a hornets’ nest.’

And someone was likely to get stung, and badly.

He felt a surprising pang of sympathy for the lady in question and cast a bored glance in her direction.

Perhaps his apparent lack of condemnation might stem the tide without his actually having to do anything about it.

‘I cannot think why what the woman wears would be of any interest.’

‘Can you not?’ North said. ‘I would say it is because she is so extraordinary and none of them can hold a candle to her.’ He moved off to join another gentleman, who was staring at the Countess through his quizzing glass.

North had more brains than Xavier had given him credit for.

A little space had formed around the Countess. One of those voids that could ruin a reputation.

The ton did not like unique. They liked conformity to rules of their making. If the woman seemed oblivious to the mores of London Society, it was none of his concern.

To him, she was forbidden fruit. Not the sort of woman he would ever, could ever, consider as a wife.

More the sort of woman a man would enjoy as a mistress.

His mind went to the cottage in Chelsea he had been discussing with his secretary that morning.

The previous tenant had moved on and it needed renting out.

His secretary had joked that it was so quaint, it would make a perfect love-nest. Xavier had quelled Perry’s amusement with a chilly glance.

The thought of the place and the Countess had been accompanied by a surge of heat in his blood that had shocked and appalled him.

It was as if he had learned nothing from his father’s disastrous marriage.

He had learned. He knew exactly what he needed to do to ensure the Dukedom continued in good order for another one hundred years.

He needed to wed a woman who would bring honour to his name and an heir and a spare into the world.

He strolled across the room to Miss Simon’s side, the young lady he was beginning to think might be his choice. As he approached, he realised she was gazing wide-eyed at the Countess. A little brown mouse gazing at a predator.

She was the one who needed his protection, not the exotic Countess.

‘Good evening, Miss Simon.’

‘Your Grace,’ she said with a blush and a shy little smile.

‘Will you do me the honour of this next dance?’

She glanced at her mother. The plump matronly woman nodded her approval while her expression showed her delight.

Xavier led Miss Simon to the nearest set to the opening bars of a country dance.

‘How are you enjoying your Season so far?’ he asked smiling down at her, feeling her nervousness in the flutter of her fingers and wanting to set her at ease.

‘Very well, Your Grace. Though of course they say this ball is a bit of a squeeze.’

Parroting the words of her acquaintances.

The sort of woman who would parrot the words of her husband and who would never have an opinion of her own.

Exactly the sort of woman he needed. Wasn’t she?

Damnation. Why on earth did this sense of dread fill him every time he decided on the perfect woman? For three seasons now, he’d been dithering on the brink of making an offer.

And each time he’d hung back. It wasn’t like him. He knew what he wanted. All he had to do was take the plunge.

The orchestra struck up a tune as they took their defined places in the set. Just as he would take his defined place as a husband and a father.

The idea used to give him a feeling of contentment, but now there was a sense of loss, as if he was missing something important.

Rubbish.

Everything was exactly as it ought to be.

Aunt Lenore had stopped to greet a friend while Barbara and Charles had wandered closer to the dance floor.

Charles leaned close. ‘Are you indeed seeking a third husband, my dearest sister?’

‘Some people think so,’ Barbara said lightly.

Charles narrowed his eyes. ‘Your Papa, perhaps?’

She had bemoaned her father’s ambitions to Charles not long after she had married his brother Helmut. Charles had been sympathetic to her plight. And after his brother’s death, he had been most solicitous.

‘And what do you think?’ he asked.

‘I have not given it an iota of thought.’

He chuckled, shaking his head. ‘You should. Not every man is a dilettante like my brother. You are far too young to take the veil.’

‘Take the veil? What can you mean?’

‘If you do not wed, what will you become? A nun? Or close to it.’

The picture he painted was hardly enticing. But the alternative was less so.

‘I expect I will remain in my father’s household, for the time being.

’ At least until she managed to sell her jewels and found a place to live.

She had hired an agent to find her something far from London and given him an idea of her budget.

Now all she could do was wait and avoid being coerced into marriage in the meantime.

‘And you will be his hostess, influencing politics while you sit at his table, perhaps? I know you have an interest in what goes on in the world. But will he allow that?’

Unlikely.

She certainly did not trust her father to have her best interests at heart. Like most men, he cared only for himself .

So many times she had pinned her hopes on her father and been let down. She never wanted to have to rely on him or anyone else again.

She gave him a cheerful smile. ‘Who can foresee the future? Are you in London to seek a wife? An heiress, perhaps?’

‘I cannot deny Helmut left things in disarray and that I am hoping to set things to rights. If I must marry to do it, I suppose I will.’

‘I am sorry,’ she said.

She was. Her husband had been a spendthrift and a bit of a blackguard.

‘I shall come about, never fear.’ He frowned. ‘It seems as if you have committed some sort of faux pas. You have everyone looking daggers.’

‘Do I?’ She forced herself not to smile.

Charles gave her an enigmatic stare, held a second too long. ‘What sort of game are you playing, my dear?’

‘Game?’

‘I know you to be an intelligent and socially astute woman. You could hardly be otherwise with a papa like yours, yet here you are committing some sort of folly like a gauche newcomer.’

He was right, she was already drawing frowns and dark glances. It seemed it did not take much to break London Society’s rules.

She briefly toyed with the idea of letting him in on her plan, but that would require giving him her trust.

The very idea sent a cold chill down her spine.

‘You are talking in riddles.’

Charles gave her a knowing smile. ‘As you wish. Would you care to dance?’

‘Only if it is a waltz.’

He gave her a quizzical look. ‘Have you been approved to dance the waltz?’

It seemed even he had been briefed about what was acceptable. ‘I have.’ More was the pity.

Perhaps if Charles danced with her more than the proscribed two times, it might help her cause. Unless he knew about that rule also.

On the other hand, perhaps she had done enough? Certainly, there were no other men seeking to ask her to dance.

‘Then waltz we shall,’ Charles said. ‘If they play one. And I shall take you to supper, if it is permitted?’

‘I shall certainly permit it.’

Her aunt joined them. Her smile was tight and anxious.

Charles, likely sensing she wanted to speak to Barbara privately, muttered a few platitudes about seeing an old friend and left.

Barbara couldn’t help admiring his quick understanding, a sort of second sense of when to leave and when to stay. She had noticed before how attuned he was to the needs of others. In particular, her needs after she had married Helmut.

Perhaps she was wrong not to trust him with her worries.

Aunt Lenore watched him join a group of gentlemen. ‘What a nice young man the Count is. ’

‘Yes, he is.’

Aunt Lenore glanced at the backs turned in their direction. ‘I fear—’ she glanced down at Barbara’s toes ‘—we have made a miscalculation regarding what is proper.’

‘We have?’ Barbara said, putting a good deal of surprise into her voice. ‘You did not think so when I showed you this gown.’

Her aunt plucked at her skirts in little nervous movements. ‘Not your gown. Your footwear.’ She moaned softly.

‘Sandals? I admit it is a little early in the year, but surely—’

‘Feet,’ Aunt Lenore gasped. ‘Toes to be exact.’

‘But one cannot wear sandals with stockings. It looks terrible.’ Her poor aunt looked so miserable she could not keep up the pretence of confusion any longer.

‘Oh! You mean the varnish.’ She glanced around her.

‘Is that why everyone is giving me the cold shoulder? It was de rigueur in Paris, I assure you.’

‘I wish you had mentioned it before we left,’ her aunt said. ‘Paris is not London.’

‘Clearly.’ And Barbara did not mean it as a compliment. ‘So do we retreat in good order, or hold our ground?’

‘I wish you wouldn’t use such language. You are not a soldier.’

‘My husband was a soldier.’

‘But—oh, I do not know what to say. Your papa is like to murder me.’

‘Of course he won’t.’ She would make sure Papa understood it was none of her aunt’s fault.

Barbara’s gaze fell upon the dance floor, on Derbridge.

The Duke and his partner, a small blonde-haired miss, were traversing the centre of their set hand in hand. The Duke smiled down at his partner with a sort of condescension that caused Barbara to grit her teeth. The child gazed back at him in wide-eyed awe. Was that what he wanted?

That sort of naive, unthinking adoration? How…disappointing.

An odd sinking sensation surprised her.

She turned away. Who the Duke danced with was of no concern to her. None at all.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Aunt Lenore, fanning herself wildly. ‘Derbridge seems very taken with the Simon girl.’

Like a wolf would be taken with a rabbit. ‘Why does that warrant an “oh, dear,” Aunt?’

Aunt Lenore pulled at a stray curl and twitched her fichu. ‘I thought perhaps after Almack’s, when he was so generous as to ignore your faux pas… Well, it is of no consequence. Not now.’

It was what Barbara had wanted, but somehow, she felt strangely saddened. She moved closer to her aunt. How odd that she had no acquaintances or friends among the company. In Austria and Paris, she had known nearly everyone at any event she attended.

The country dance ended, and a few moments later the orchestra struck up a waltz .

She looked around for Charles, but he was nowhere to be seen. It seemed he had also decided that discretion was the better part of valour.

How could she blame him? She had no wish to see him ostracised.