Page 46 of Duke of Eccess (Seven Dukes of Sin #4)
On December the twenty-third—or Christmas Eve Eve, as the children kept insisting on calling it—the ballroom in Dulcis Court was glittering.
With great satisfaction, Octavius looked over the vast ballroom, which could accommodate two hundred guests, alit with candlelight glimmering golden in crystal chandeliers and illuminating the polished parquet floor.
Despite his complete distaste for Christmas, even the garlands of bay leaves, holly, ivy, and mistletoe draping the marble columns looked pretty, thanks to Temperance.
Cream paneling lined the walls with ornate alcoves holding statues of Aphrodite and Dionysus, the two Greek gods who had been resident in Dulcis Court for generations, blessing the insatiable hunger for bodily pleasures.
On this important day, he missed his personal Aphrodite, Temperance, by his side.
He wished she had agreed to join him for the ball.
Everything would sparkle a little brighter with her presence.
Portraits of former Dukes and Duchesses of Eccess gazed down from gilded frames and red hothouse roses looked pretty against the evergreen Christmas plants, all designed to emphasize his wealth and generosity to impress Lord Liverpool and the members of the Board of Trade, as well as foreign delegates.
From their elevated platform beneath a canopy of winter boughs, the twelve-piece chamber orchestra played Bach’s “Air on the G String,” one of Octavius’s personal favorites.
The music mixed with the chatter of dozens of mingling guests and the scents of perfume, snuff tobacco, and roses.
Ladies gathered here and there in silk gowns with fashionable high waists and skirts that brushed the floor, sparkling with pearls, crystals, and jewels.
Long gloves made every arm look elegant, and they wore their hair in high chignons decorated with feathers, fabric flowers, and bejeweled combs while ringlets of curls framed their faces.
Gentlemen strolled about in perfectly fitting tailcoats of dark hues, with pristine high white cravats around their necks and knee breeches of silk and fine wool or tight trousers above their court shoes.
Octavius could call himself satisfied with the grandeur of the event, though during the Season in spring and summer, he’d have made sure it was even more impressive.
He enjoyed a good masquerade with fireworks, performers, acrobats, and more entertainment.
But all he needed right then was to impress certain people.
Standing at the entrance of the ballroom, he greeted incoming guests, including all twenty Board of Trade members. His loyal dukes and their duchesses were there as well among the guests, entertaining them and helping his cause.
Even Enveigh was here, despite their recent mutual dislike.
Everything has to be perfect. Earlier today Octavius had personally tasted every single dish in the kitchens and sniffed every wine offered—though unlike he might have done before, savoring every drink, he had his valet try them for him.
With a great sense of enjoyment he watched the guests’ faces slacken with pleasure as they drank punch and wassail and tasted the cheese custard tartlets, small sandwiches with boiled tongue, and miniature raised pies with veal and chicken carried around by the footmen.
The children looked absolutely perfect, and Temperance had assured him they were ready to be in society this evening, if only for an hour or two. James hadn’t walked in his sleep for ten days straight, the longest stretch in the time he’d lived with Octavius.
Octavius greeted the Regent, who approached with the easy familiarity of a man genuinely pleased to be there. The royal wore a rich burgundy velvet tailcoat with an intricately tied white cravat. Wassail must have brought a flush to his features, and his eyes sparkled with friendship.
“I was looking forward to this, Eccess.” The Regent looked around the ballroom with obvious pleasure. “The absence of your legendary events has been noted. Your empty seat at Elysium also. It’s not fun anymore without you.”
Octavius inclined his head politely. “You’re very welcome here, Your Royal Highness. I do hope you enjoy yourself.”
Lord Liverpool approached after the Regent. He was a man of slightly above average height in his forties with paling blond hair and a prominent aquiline nose. Octavius looked down at the prime minister’s serious face as he surveyed the ballroom with sharp, satisfied eyes.
At Octavius’s signal, the children came closer. If Lord Liverpool saw him as a devoted guardian rather than a dissolute rake, the position was surely his. The children were proof positive of transformation.
The girls curtsied deeply, just as they were supposed to, and like a true young gentleman, James bowed politely. Looking pleased, the Regent and Lord Liverpool nodded in approval.
Octavius took a deep breath. This was it. “Allow me to present my three wards. James, Viscount Everard—heir to my own title—and the Honorable Miss Margaret Everard and the Honorable Miss Sophie, his sisters.”
The Regent bowed politely and cocked his brow.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” said Lord Liverpool.
“ Bonjour ,” said Sophie in perfect French. “ Je suis enchantée de faire votre connaissance. ”
“Quite a remarkable knowledge of French at such a young age,” said the Regent with a satisfied smile, and Lord Liverpool nodded as well.
“It would be a pleasure to host you for hunting next year,” James said to the Regent.
The Regent smiled. “Of course.” He leaned towards Octavius and muttered, “Is he allowed to invite me to your estate?”
Octavius chuckled politely. “He is, Your Highness.”
“Very well, then I shall gladly accept your invitation,” said the Regent with a grin.
Liverpool took a small step towards Octavius and leaned to him ever so slightly. “Everything looks splendid, Your Grace. I should be glad to announce the positive decision by the end of this ball. Am I correct, Your Royal Highness?” he asked the Regent, who gave a nod.
A slow warmth spread through Octavius’s chest, trickling into his belly, his breathing deepening. He had done well. He’d almost achieved his goal—for the children. But mostly, for himself.
See, Father? he thought. You would have never been able to achieve this. Look what your useless son has managed.
“Please enjoy your evening,” Octavius said, giving a polite bow. “The refreshments, as you can imagine, have been carefully chosen by me. The selection of wines represents the possibilities available to us once we open trade with France. Merry Christmas.”
The French envoy, who’d previously stood five feet away in the ballroom talking to a lady and a gentleman, moved closer.
He was a man in his late thirties, short and thin, with a thinning hairline and intelligent brown eyes.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I could not help but notice your ward’s excellent pronunciation.
Few English children speak our language so naturally. ”
“ Their governess is exceptionally skilled ,” Octavius replied in careful but correct French, tension momentarily tightening in his gut at the thought of Temperance. “ She has taught them much about your culture as well as your language. ”
“Ah.” The envoy’s eyes sparkled with approval as he replied in French, “ I must commend your efforts—and your selection of wines is enjoyable. Am I correct I’m tasting Chateau Haut-Brion ?”
“Indeed,” Octavius said, then continued more confidently, “ I hope to establish more open and better commerce between our nations .”
“ Precisely! This is what we all hope for… ”
Octavius continued to greet guests, and once most of them had arrived, he opened the dancing with the Duchess of Luhst, even though he wished Temperance could be his partner instead.
Watching the couples dance made him miss Temperance.
The children would be fine, she’d insisted after she’d refused to come to the ball.
They’d outdone themselves and she trusted them to behave well. They didn’t need her anymore.
Outwardly Octavius played the role he’d learned from an early age: the picture of the perfect duke with no sign of weakness or inner turmoil.
But inside, the glittering light of the crystals, the sparkles from jewels dancing all around him, the whisper of silk, and the music of violins all felt like rubbing a wound with salt because he missed Temperance.
The closer Christmas became, the more of a famished beggar he felt. Despite his twisting nausea, he was on the brink of devouring it all, drinking all the different wines to forget he had to maintain this collected facade.
But what he really wanted was to bury himself in Temperance so deep and so long, he’d forget who he was.
Octavius’s hands shook and he locked them behind his back as he watched the ballroom without quite seeing it.
Christmas was always taking away people he loved—his parents, his baby sister—and he was sure somehow he’d lose Temperance, too.
Perhaps she’d see how unworthy he truly was.
Or perhaps something would take her away from him, like that unknown relative of hers and the men who were chasing after her.
“You look as terrified as I felt before I proposed to Chastity,” Lucien, the Duke of Luhst, said, appearing at his elbow with a wineglass in hand.
He looked happy, handsome, tall and elegant, with his golden curls shining in the light and violet eyes carefully studying him.
“Though I suspect for different reasons.”
Octavius managed a tight smile. “Everything is going well.” He cleared his throat. “Too well.”
“Too well?” Lucien chuckled. “Oh, I understand the feeling.” He paused, watching the dancers. “Is it about…Miss Fields?”
Octavius inhaled sharply and gave a curt nod. He hadn’t yet confessed to any of his friends his true feelings for his governess, and this acknowledgment to Lucien brought a relief he hadn’t thought he needed.