Page 22 of His Stolen Duchess (Stolen by the Duke #7)

“Twins marrying twins,” Beatrice muttered, rolling her eyes.

“I saw you dancing earlier,” Isabella added suddenly, her voice lowering conspiratorially. “You looked happy. Is your marriage all you hoped for?”

“It’s been… an adventure,” Georgina said, sweeping her gaze around the ballroom. The chandeliers glimmered, casting the crowd in a warm haze of gold. “I’m still adjusting.”

“You’re a duchess now,” Isabella breathed. “Can you believe it?”

Georgina’s smile faltered for a second. She was keenly aware of the eyes that drifted her way, not with admiration, but calculation.

“I’m adjusting to that too,” she admitted. “Some days I feel like an imposter. But it’s also thrilling. Do you know, His Grace is teaching me to swim? In his own lake.”

Both sisters sighed at once. “How romantic,” they crooned.

Before Georgina could reply, a pair of young men approached—well-dressed, freshly combed, and far too eager.

“Lady Isabella,” said the first, bowing.

“Lady Beatrice,” said the second.

They introduced themselves as Lord Richfield and Lord Marlowe and quickly invited the young ladies to take refreshments with them.

“I must circulate,” Georgina said, already stepping away. “Treat the young ladies well—or you’ll answer to me.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Lord Richfield said with a respectful nod.

She watched the twins follow the young men, giggling as they disappeared into the throng.

It was a bittersweet feeling—seeing her friends flush with excitement, dancing on the edge of new possibilities. She only hoped they would take her words to heart. Marriage, she had learned, could fall upon a woman like a sudden storm.

She turned to find a drink and made her way toward the refreshment table. The punch bowl shimmered with condensation, but it wasn’t her thirst that drew her. It was something to do with her hands, something to stave off the restlessness in her chest.

Two women stood nearby with their backs turned and their voices sharp and gleeful.

“I still can’t believe she managed it,” one said. “First Lord Abbington, and now the Duke? She’s been rather industrious, hasn’t she?”

“Oh, it’s obvious what happened,” the second replied. “She and the Duke plotted the whole thing to humiliate Lord Abbington. Did you see the timing? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was all revenge.”

“She was practically glued to the Duke the whole night,” the first added. “It was as if she’d planned to be caught with him. The scandal made her interesting. And now look at her.”

Georgina reached for a glass, her fingers trembling with fury.

She could feel the heat rising in her throat, and an indignant flush prickling her ears. Her mouth opened, ready to throw back a cutting retort, but she swiftly closed it.

What would unleashing my wrath accomplish? If I cause a scene, they will say I am unhinged. Hysterical. A dramatic duchess who cannot handle whispers.

She left the glass on the table, untouched.

The smirking women suddenly turned, unaware of Georgina’s eyes burning into them, and froze when they saw her standing behind them.

The moment held.

Their smugness faltered, just for a breath. Georgina said nothing. She met their eyes, let them squirm under her silence, then lifted her chin and turned on her heel.

She did not flee. She walked straight-backed and with her chin held high toward a side door she’d spotted earlier. It led to a narrow balcony, quiet and cool in the evening air.

Stepping out, she gripped the stone railing and exhaled slowly. The cool air stung, but she welcomed it.

She would not cry. She would not bend.

“How are you doing, old chap?” Thomas asked as Lysander approached. “A pleasure to see you out amongst the living.”

“I thought it was time I reminded society I still exist,” Lysander replied dryly. He extended his hand, and Thomas shook it with enthusiasm. “Are you hunting tonight? Or merely grazing?”

Thomas gave a careless shrug. “Why restrict oneself to a single bloom when the garden is so bountiful? The room is thick with eligible—and charmingly ineligible—women. I may sample a few of both.”

“I won’t come running when you land yourself in a scandal with the latter,” Lysander warned, lifting a glass of cognac to his lips.

“Pity. I always thought of us as a team.”

“You’ve always formed a team of one and hoped I’d come to the rescue.”

“And you always did,” Thomas said, grinning unrepentantly. “Admit it. You’ve missed me.”

Lysander said nothing and sipped his cognac, finding it to be a marked improvement over the champagne.

“You’re not alone these days,” Thomas went on. “You, your lady wife, and of course, that infernal bird. A proper trio.”

“The less said about the parrot, the better,” Lysander muttered. “Still, when he’s caged, he’s tolerable. And he now has two separate residences, one for each city.”

“Most gentlemen dream of two homes for a mistress, not a bird,” Thomas quipped. “But what of the Duchess? Is she as unruly as the bird?”

“She has the capacity to be,” Lysander said, glancing over at the room’s far edge, scanning the guests. “But she exercises restraint.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”

“What?”

“That look. You were scanning the crowd for her just now. There was something in your expression. I daresay you’re fond of the woman.”

“You make a poor psychic, my friend. I was making sure she hadn’t wandered into mischief. That was all.”

“Of course,” Thomas said. “And when you were out there dancing with her? The way you looked at her?—”

“Do you have nothing better to do than watch me?” Lysander interrupted. “Weren’t you meant to be charming women? Surely I’m far less entertaining.”

Thomas smirked. “You’re dancing around the question as gracefully as you did around the ballroom. Why not admit it? You enjoy her company.”

“You’ve become extravagantly metaphorical,” Lysander said. “And poorly dressed.”

“Unkind and evasive. My heart wounds afresh.” Thomas clutched his chest theatrically, then dropped his hand. “But in all seriousness, is it so terrible to admit that your wife pleases you?”

“She serves her purpose,” Lysander said evenly.

Thomas tilted his head. “A purpose that makes you stare across a crowded room, searching for her face.”

“I said I wasn’t teasing anymore,” Thomas added with mock solemnity. “But I wasn’t the only one watching. Others have also taken notice. The whispers are already circulating.”

Lysander frowned. “Whispers?”

“About the suddenness of your courtship. About Lord Abbington.”

Lysander’s jaw tensed. “Why must people fabricate stories when they know nothing of the truth?”

“Because gossip is more diverting than facts,” Thomas said. “And because, unlike you, most people prefer to dissect other lives rather than reflect on their own. If they were half as self-aware as I am, they’d be much happier.”

Lysander didn’t answer. His gaze swept the ballroom once more, passing over Lady Isabella and Lady Beatrice deep in conversation with a pair of young men.

But Georgina was nowhere in sight.

“Excuse me,” he said abruptly. “I need to find the Duchess. She may be looking for me.”

Thomas gave a dramatic sigh. “Go to her, then. Duty calls—or is it affection?”

Lysander ignored the jab and strode off.

Thomas can believe whatever he likes.

The truth was, he didn’t care if people talked about him . They always had. But Georgina was unaccustomed to society’s games. If whispers followed her through the ballroom, if eyes tracked her with speculation or suspicion, then that was his fault.

And he would not let her bear the cost of his reputation.

If anyone dared speak ill of her, if she felt even a moment of discomfort…

He would see to it that it never happened again.