Page 12 of His Illegitimate Duchess

When the dancing started, it wasn’t too difficult to keep track of her and simultaneously converse with his dance partners.

After ten years as a duke, Talbot knew exactly how much flattery others were due, and how much to expect in return.

He knew all the topics du jour , was familiar with popular writers and painters, and read the broadsheets enough to keep up with the Ton gossip that he was frequently a subject of.

He was also a virtuoso in the art of casual flirting, never one to be accused of misleading a lady about his intentions.

Talbot found himself relaxing as the evening progressed, his initial turmoil over being reminded of the death of his friendship with Nicholas fading away in good company.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, seemed taut as a bowstring, he noted with malicious glee.

He could have sworn her eyes had darted towards the exit several times, but since she had been dancing with Gideon Powell at the time, it was understandable.

The man did have a reputation for being ruthless and cold.

And then there were the rumours about his late wife. Colin shuddered inwardly.

The waltz Talbot had claimed fell right in the middle of the evening, and when he took Elizabeth’s gloved hand in his, he expected her to be as tense as she had been during her other dances, but as he put his other hand on her waist, he could feel her exhale in what could only be interpreted as relief. But that didn’t make any sense.

When the music started and they (for lack of a better word) embraced, he finally had an opportunity to properly observe her face.

Her eye colour was stunning – it reminded him of lying in the grass in Norwich, looking up at tree branches illuminated by the sun, creating a melange of brown, green, and sunlight gold.

Her features resembled Nicholas’s, particularly her colouring and her brow. She smelled of lavender, which was a popular soap among the ladies, but he suspected that the sweet, floral smell belied her true nature.

“Allow me to express my gratitude for the honour of this dance, Miss Hawkins,” Talbot started his offensive, feeling vexed for some unclear reason.

“The honour is mine, Your Grace,” she said, not even registering the way he cut her.

And there was no enthusiasm or flirtation in her voice, although she was waltzing with a young, unmarried duke.

It was hard to believe she was related to Lady Charlotte, with whom he’d had the misfortune of dancing many times last year, always with the intent to annoy Nicholas.

He couldn’t help but compare the two girls to each other.

They are nothing alike, he thought, in colouring, demeanour, or (he glanced down briefly) bosom .

Talbot made another attempt at conversation, “Did you have an opportunity to meet many new friends this evening?”

“Yes,” she responded absent-mindedly.

She wasn’t even looking him in the eye, she was peering at his cravat instead.

“Do you enjoy dancing?”

Good Lord. She was turning him into Amelia Fairchild.

“Yes, very much.”

Talbot knew she hadn’t been brought up in the Ton, but had she been brought up somewhere far away from other people? She was stalemate personified.

“I believe now it’s your turn to ask something, Miss Hawkins.” Talbot attempted to conceal his irritation with a fake smile.

That shook her out of her daze.

“I must seem frightfully rude, I apologise,” she said, and seemed sincere.

“This whole evening I’ve been fretting over making a faux pas , or forgetting the steps to a dance, or making a fool of myself or embarrassing my brother some other way, and now I finally have the chance to relax a bit since I’m dancing with a man who I already inflicted bodily harm on, which means you’ve already seen me at my worst so there is no point in exhausting myself further in order to make a good first impression,” she concluded.

Talbot was taken aback by the admission, as well as the utterly inappropriate reference to their first meeting. He suddenly remembered how lost and scared she had looked right before she kneed him, so he only said, “I dance well enough for the both of us, no need to worry on that account.”

“Are you not going to address the fact that I injured you?” the girl asked, suppressing a smile.

Talbot narrowed his eyes at her, “I wasn’t going to, Miss Hawkins. And neither should you.”

“Forgive me if this is inappropriate, but we don’t really have to converse at all.”

Talbot cocked his head to the side as he observed the girl. He felt her shoulders move every time she spoke, and her hand occasionally jerked in his, like she was used to waving it around during conversations.

“Now, why would you say that?”

“Well, you clearly dislike my brother, and you keep referring to me as Miss Hawkins, letting me know what you think of my position in society. Not to mention you purse your lips whenever you address me, as if your mouth is upset that it has to talk to me,” Elizabeth told him as she held her gaze on something behind his shoulder.

“I would much rather use this time to rest and recover for the remaining portion of the ball.”

He was surprised that she’d noticed his antipathy. Talbot considered himself a master of schooling his features to conceal his true thoughts. He didn’t know what to say.

He never really talked to women. He talked at his female servants.

He conversed somewhat with his mistresses, though not too much nor too deeply.

His mother was somewhere on the Continent, and he hadn’t seen her in years.

He often uttered conventional, worn-out phrases, lukewarm compliments, and empty platitudes at balls and similar events to wide-eyed young women who hoped to become the next Duchess of Norwich, but he’d never spoken to a woman honestly or at length, as if she were a man.

“Almost every ballroom has a coat room not far from the entrance,” he said, deciding to ignore her accurate observation, “unlike the retiring rooms, the coat room usually remains empty once the dancing starts. If you ever need a moment to gather your wits, you can briefly retire there.”

Hearing that, she did, finally, stumble and step on his foot.

“Don’t apologise,” he shook his head upon seeing her expression. “No one even noticed, and it hurt far less than your other attack on me.”

Elizabeth’s smile was so wide that his own face couldn’t resist mirroring it. He noticed that her eyes twinkled when she was amused, and her mouth was framed by two large dimples.

“Well, thank you, Your Grace. Both for suffering my various attacks on your person, and for the advice on where I can escape this crush, even if only for a moment. I hope I’ll get used to it soon,” she added somewhat wistfully, and Talbot was unable to decipher whether she longed to accept this life or for her days prior to it.

He, personally, couldn’t comprehend anyone longing for an existence different from this one.

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Hawkins,” he said as he bowed, then offered his hand to lead her off the dance floor.

She walked briskly, efficiently, not in order to be seen, noticed, or admired, but because she had a destination to reach, and once she did, she seemed to be at a loss. He could tell that her body was used to being active, and that she had to exert great effort to keep it still and decorative.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Elizabeth performed what she probably believed to be a rather successful curtsy before turning to her next partner, a man below him in rank.

Talbot, on the other hand, had the honour of dancing the second waltz with the most coveted female match of the Season, Lady Helena Grey. Not only was she beautiful and accomplished, but she was also an Earl’s daughter with a significant dowry.

Why had he even wasted the first waltz on Nicholas’s illegitimate half-sister?

“Thank you for the honour of this dance, lovely Lady Helena,” he all but purred as he gazed into her sharp blue eyes.

“The honour is all mine, Your Grace, even if it is only the second waltz,” she pouted, and her mouth looked even more alluring. It was a practised look, Talbot could tell, for he had seen many young ladies make the exact same face over the years. It was comforting and familiar, and thus good .

“You know very well one must honour his host,” he decided to play the game Lady Helena had started.

“You are known far and wide for your impeccable manners, Duke Talbot,” she smiled prettily, letting him know that, of course, everyone would understand that he was forced to dance the first waltz with the interloper only because her brother was the host.

“Birds of a feather, as you well know, Lady Helena,” he flattered her, and her whole face lit up.

“It feels good to be back in your own flock, doesn’t it?”

“You have no idea,” he said with a smile designed to be seductive.

From the corner of his eye, Talbot could see Elizabeth conversing animatedly with her unimportant dance partner, and he wondered what she was saying. The sentiment struck him as odd and unnatural, for he knew what Lady Helena would say next.

He then wondered whether Elizabeth was stepping on the man’s toes, and hoped she wasn’t, for her sake. He directed all his focus on Lady Helena and her unforestlike eyes and didn’t let his gaze stray for the rest of the dance.

*

Elizabeth couldn't remember a lot about her debut.

She knew she had worn the yellow dress with the exquisitely and intricately embroidered bodice, which, in the coming years, Mary would often blame for her poor eyesight.

She knew that Mary had painstakingly curled her hair and pinned it up in an intricate hairdo, because her scalp ached and tingled for days afterwards.

Everything else? The atmosphere, the people, the ballroom?

It was like a hazy memory that belonged to someone else.

Afterwards, both Nicholas and Sophie seemed proud, and they both told her she had done well.

That was something she'd never forget – how the pride had straightened her brother's body to make him look even taller, and the warm liquid joy that spread from her heart into all of her limbs at the knowledge that she had pleased him.

That she had stopped, even briefly, being the burdensome, shameful secret their dead father had kept, and instead had become a proper young lady who does well while presented to the Ton.

Strangely, during the carriage ride home, she also remembered a conversation she’d had with her mother leading up to her debut.

She briefly had a vision of a younger Catherine’s tear-stained face after being told she wouldn't have the Season in London she’d been promised, because her father had gambled all their money away.

She thought of her mother as a young governess, running after Isolde's snotty children and then being noticed by a duke.

She thought of warm liquid joy and fatherless young women until the carriage motion lulled her to sleep.