Page 13 of Enchanting the Duke
“And Dinah?”
“She only wants you to be happy.Though she would not object to your marrying a lesser noble with a castle in Scotland and a mild disposition.”Grandmama’s lips curved.“Perhaps the Rutherford boy?”
Chrissy made a face, then blushed at the childishness of it.“He is sweet.But he is not…” She trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought.
Grandmama finished it for her.“He is not Nomansland.”
Chrissy buried her face in her hands, half-laughing, half-miserable.“Grandmama, what am I to do?”
The old woman cupped her chin, forced Chrissy to meet her gaze.“You must decide what you want.Not what is expected, or what is safe, or what will please the family.But what you want.”Grandmama’s expression grew stern.“And you must be prepared to fight for it, if necessary.Otherwise, you will spend your whole life wondering what might have been.”
Chrissy felt her eyes fill with tears, but she willed them away.“You make it sound so easy.”
“It is never easy.But it is simple.”
They sat that way for a while, the silence comfortable around them.Eventually, Grandmama rose, smoothing her skirts.“We must prepare for the assembly this evening,” she said briskly, as if the conversation had been about nothing more momentous than the color of the tea service.“The Rutherford boy will be there, and I would not have you looking a fright.He’s been asking after you, you know.Much more suitable.”
Chrissy nodded, obedient on the surface.But as she gathered her things and readied for the evening, she felt the resolve in her chest harden, a small gem of certainty in a storm of confusion.
She would see the duke again.She would dance with Rutherford, and all the other boys, and she would smile and play her part.But she knew, with a clarity that startled her, that no one—not Abingdon, not Grandmama, not even Nomansland himself—could dislodge the memory of that near-kiss, or the wild, dizzying hope it had awakened.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Munsterley ballroom was a fire hazard, Nomansland could tell at a glance.A few hazardously placed candelabras, one careless elbow, and every peacock-feather headpiece would go up like kindling.Even without the threat of combustion, the place seethed with more heat than the inside of a furnace.Every person in the ton had squeezed themselves into a space designed for half their number, and the air was thick with perfume, ambition, and the static charge of gossip.
He paused in the entryway, surveying the battlefield.The Munsterleys had gone for a Venetian theme, which translated to an abundance of gold, an overinvestment in masks, and a troop of footmen dressed in harlequin livery.The effect was less Carnival di Venezia and more fevered debutante auction, but Nomansland supposed it didn’t really matter.The only thing anyone would remember was who danced with whom, and who was found later rutting behind the palm fronds in the conservatory.
He’d barely arrived when Abingdon materialized at his side, moving with the swift, predatory efficiency of a man who had spent his life managing unruly crowds.He clapped Nomansland on the back.“I’d heard you were coming, but I didn’t believe it.Did someone drag you here at gunpoint?”
Nomansland grinned.“Even a man of my standing must occasionally remind society he is not, in fact, a reprobate.Munsterley sent an invitation with actual gold leaf.I’d have been remiss not to see what the fuss was about.”
Abingdon eyed him, skeptical.“You’re wearing a waistcoat that isn’t black.Have you decided to enter the Marriage Mart?”
Nomansland flicked a glance down the length of his form.He wore midnight-blue superfine tailored within an inch of its life, a pale waistcoat shot with silver, and a white starched cravat so sharp it might draw blood if handled carelessly.The effect was less fop and more prizefighter attempting to blend in, he thought.His shoulders strained the coat in a way that made it clear he could snap most of the other men in the room like breadsticks.
The women, he noted, seemed to appreciate the aesthetic.He caught the gaze of at least three dowagers and a pair of young misses, all of whom attempted surreptitious glances and failed spectacularly.One had dropped her fan, which now lay abandoned on the marble floor.
Abingdon saw the same thing and snorted.“You’re a menace.”
“Says the man who once seduced an entire finishing school.”
“That’s different.I have a wife now to keep the wolves at bay.You, on the other hand, are the most eligible man in London, according to Dinah.There’s an actual betting pool on who you’ll choose.The odds on Lady Jane stood at four-to-one this morning.”
Nomansland didn’t indulge the jibe.His eyes were already hunting, and when he finally caught the flash of blonde curls across the ballroom, his breath tripped.It was not a visible stumble—no one would ever accuse Nomansland of so transparent a tell—but the tightness in his chest was enough to make him wish he could sit down.
Chrissy.
No, Miss Westfall, he reminded himself.He couldn’t slip in front of Abingdon.
She was dancing, which was hardly unusual, but the man at her side was at least two decades older than she was.His hair was greased to his scalp and his smile too wide, but Miss Westfall looked up at him with a polite, earnest smile that Nomansland recognized, the expression she reserved for situations in which she was utterly, irretrievably out of her depth.
Abingdon caught the direction of his gaze.“Absolutely not.Not her.”
Nomansland didn’t flinch, though the words landed like a slap.“Why not her?”
“Because,” Abingdon said, voice rough with some emotion Nomansland didn’t care to dissect, “she’s my wife’s little sister, and I’ve spent the last year keeping her out of the hands of men like—” He cut off, as if realizing the futility of the argument.
“Men like me,” Nomansland supplied.“Let me guess.You’d prefer she marry the Rutherford boy.Or perhaps Pemberton, if his liver survives the season.”