Page 1 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)
“ L ord Townstead has arrived. He is here!” Lady Nancy Gallagher whispered behind her fan, her eyes following the Marquess as he made his way through the crowded ballroom. “He looks particularly dashing tonight; wouldn’t you agree, Hester?”
Lady Hester Jensen’s gaze followed her friend’s indication. He certainly presents well, Hester conceded inwardly. “He cuts an acceptable figure, I suppose. More importantly, Nancy, he always appears civil and well-mannered in company. That is what truly matters.”
“Oh, come now, Hester. Cease your observations from the shadows and go speak to him,” Nancy encouraged with a playful nudge. “You do have a mission this season, do you not?”
Hester held back a sigh. Indeed, she had a mission, and as she watched the Marquess, she thought him good enough company. “Surely you do not suggest that I approach him directly, Nancy,” Hester felt her cheeks warm slightly with embarrassment. “Direct approaches are hardly seemly.”
“Well, you have taken a marked interest in observing the Marquess, dear,” Nancy persisted, her eyes gleaming impishly. “You note his movements in society with the diligence of a chronicler.”
I suppose my practical assessment is rather obvious. “You forget that I have been observing most gentlemen at this ball in the same manner, Nancy,” Hester grumbled, rolling her eyes. “I merely seek a sensible companion, not a grand passion. Lord Townstead seems a rational candidate, however.”
Hester was in her fourth season on the marriage mart, and the specter of spinsterhood loomed ever closer.
She did not seek love—its perils were etched too deeply in her memory—but she did desire a companionable husband with whom she could share a decent conversation.
Lord Townstead, from her observations, seemed jovial and well-mannered enough to fit that practical role.
“Then you must speak to him,” her friend advised.
Perhaps Nancy has a point. “But how would one even begin such a conversation?” she murmured, more to herself than Nancy.
Hester concealed part of her face with a fan as she stole another glance at the Marquess. He was engaged in conversation with a group of gentlemen. His laughter carried across the room, a sound denoting sociability. A good sign for conversation, she noted.
“Your brother could always make the introductions.”
Hester lit up at the suggestion. Why had I not thought of this before? Her brother, Leonard, the Earl of Hightower, was acquainted with Lord Townstead. A formal introduction was the perfect, respectable solution.
Hester’s gaze swept the ballroom once more, searching for her brother. She spotted him near the refreshment table, engaged in conversation with a group of ladies.
Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she began to weave her way through the crowd. This is merely a practical step, she reminded herself. She was so focused on reaching Leonard that she failed to notice anything in her path.
That was until she walked straight into what felt like a wall. A grunt escaped her lips as she massaged her forehead. When she looked up, her eyes widened in horror.
Instead of a wall, Hester found herself gazing at the finely tailored evening kit of a gentleman. Her eyes traveled upward, taking in the intricate details of his waistcoat and jacket, the perfectly sculpted line of his jaw, and finally, his face.
Hester’s breath hitched, trapped by sudden tension.
The gentleman before her seemed carved from something unyielding, his face all sharp angles and stern lines, dominated by piercing blue eyes that held her frozen.
A thin scar traced his left cheekbone like a blade’s memory, and his tawny beard and hair, so unlike the clean-shaven gentlemen of the ton , gave him a rugged, almost dangerous air.
Good heavens, he looks like a Highland warrior, she thought, instinctively stepping back. The sheer presence of him felt overwhelming, as if the air had thickened around them.
She realized then how quiet the ballroom had become. Even the orchestra had ceased playing. All eyes seemed to be on her or rather, on the gentleman she had so clumsily collided with.
Her cheeks burned with mortification as she quickly curtsied. “I beg your pardon, sir. I did not see you there,” she mumbled.
The gentleman, to his credit, was gracious. “Think nothin’ of it, lass,” he replied. “I should have been more mindful of my surroundings as well.”
Is he new to English society? He tilted his head slightly, regarding her with an expression that seemed to hold a hint of interest. Why is he looking at me like that? A shiver ran down her spine.
As if in answer to her unspoken question, a matron nearby whispered loudly enough for half the ballroom to hear, “It’s him. That’s the new Duke of Lushton.”
“The Scottish Duke!” another voice supplied.
The whispers continued to ripple through the ballroom, and she was unable to tear her gaze away from him. A duke and a Scot to boot.
He gave a slight incline of his head that was both polite and dismissive. Before she could gather her wits, he stepped to the side and walked past her, leaving her staring at his retreating form as the crowd parted for him.
Another shiver ran though Hester.