Page 25 of Ruby in the Rough (Heiress #4)
Chapter
Twenty-Five
T he following evening was the Kenworthy’s ball. This event was their first appearance as man and wife, and one Cordelia had been looking forward to—perhaps too eagerly—to waltz with Christian before society.
She waited in the foyer of their Berkley Square home for Christian and Jane. She clasped her stomach as nerves twisted her innards, her steps restless as she walked about the space counting down the minutes until they left.
This evening she wore the ducal coronet and diamonds—a rivière of stones that glittered like captured starlight about her throat, and matching drops at her ears. For the first time since her marriage she felt like a duchess, as though the very jewels announced it.
Jane floated down the stairs, her gown of pale-green tulle and satin ribbons, the shade drawing out the warmth of her complexion and setting her auburn curls to advantage.
This evening would be a first for Jane also, since Cordelia could now act as chaperone.
Their long-suffering aunt, who detested social interactions was more than happy to remain upstairs, settled in the parlor with her knitting, quite determined not to be moved from her chair by anything short of fire or flood.
“You look beautiful, Jane.” Cordelia bussed her cheeks with a kiss.
“I must say, I am quite excited for this evening. The Kenworthy’s ball is rumored to always be a crush, but I heard she adores filling the ballroom with flowers.”
“Oh, she does,” Jane replied. “Last year the room smelled like a hothouse, utterly divine, although poor Lady King did suffer quite terribly from the pollen. She sneezed, I should say, about twenty times before leaving early. It was quite the humiliation.”
“Poor Lady King. Then we should not expect her this evening?”
“I should imagine not.” Jane glanced about. “Is Christian not down yet?”
“No, not yet.” Cordelia adjusted her silk gloves and fought not to fidget with her hands. But before she could remark again, Christian emerged—not from the stairs, but the library. He halted at the sight of them both.
“You look very beautiful this evening, duchess.” He came forward and kissed her, and Cordelia reminded herself that she could not sink into a puddle of want and need whenever her husband looked at her, nevertheless kiss her so freely.
“You are not dressed,” Jane said, gesturing to his afternoon attire. “We shall be so late.”
He raised his brows as though he did not comprehend the enormity of arriving at their first ball as a married couple, tarnished by tardiness.
“I am not attending the ball.”
Cordelia started at his words. “What do you mean you are not going? It is our first ball since returning to London. Everyone expects us to be there.” She did not say—though the thought burned—that it was their first since their hasty marriage.
Perhaps a gentleman would not set great store by such matters, but she did.
Tonight was important, a chance to show the ton that, though their marriage had been arranged in three days, there was no shame in it.
“Well, now that we are married,” Christian said, “I did not think I would need to attend every ball that was left before the Season ends.”
Jane gasped, and Cordelia swallowed down her disappointment. “Of course.” She forced composure, unwilling to make a scene before Jane. But inwardly her pride stung, her hope for a perfect evening crumbling. This was a matter to be discussed later. “We shall be back late. Do not wait up.”
“I shall probably go to the club.”
Cordelia forced the thought from her mind—that Christian at the club meant brandy, gaming, and worse temptations besides. The idea of him seeking a mistress, so soon into their marriage, would undo her. No, she would not let her mind run wild.
“Have a good evening,” Cordelia flippantly threw over her shoulder as she took her shawl from the waiting footman before she swept out without a backward glance. She heard Christian call after her but did not reply. Instead, she climbed into the carriage with the footman’s aid and waited for Jane.
The short drive across Mayfair did not take long. Soon they were greeting Lord and Lady Kenworthy, before entering the ballroom.
As expected, it was filled with flowers. Banks of roses, lilies, and hothouse blooms in profusion, their mingled scents thick upon the air. The perfume was almost cloying, yet smelled undeniably lovely, like stepping into a living painting.
“This is darling,” Cordelia whispered to Jane as they linked arms and began to move through the crowd.
She felt suddenly conspicuous. Perhaps she should not have worn the ducal diamonds.
Without Christian beside her, they seemed to gleam like an accusation, a boast she had no right to make alone.
She caught smiles and polite greetings, yet soon enough saw heads bend together, lips moving in whispers.
Were they remarking upon her? Upon the duke’s absence? Mortification threatened to swamp her, and she was grateful when a passing footman offered wine. She took two glasses, handing one to Jane, and drank deeply.
“Steady, Cordelia,” Jane teased. “I should not like to carry you home.”
Cordelia threw her sister-in-law a small smile. Jane could always lighten her mood. “Now that I am married, we ought to renew our efforts in finding you a husband. Has anyone here caught your eye?”
Jane tapped her lip, surveying the room. “Not yet. Although Lord Ghent looks handsome this evening. He has had his hair cut, from what I can tell.”
Cordelia glanced across the floor. “Indeed. It suits him much better.”
They spoke thus for some minutes before Jane was swept away for a dance. Thankfully, Rosalind soon appeared at Cordelia’s side.
“Dearest, I am glad to see you here. How are you faring?”
Cordelia sighed. If there was one person she could confide in, it was Rosalind. “Everything goes very well, and I have done as you instructed in regard to more delicate matters. Yet this evening Christian did not wish to come. He has gone to his club.”
Rosalind squeezed her hand, her look of pity not helping her anxiety.
“I had thought he would escort me at least to this ball. Our first in London as man and wife. We ought to show a united front, so there is less talk of how hasty our nuptials were.”
“I shall let it be known that the haste was because of how deeply you love one another, and nothing else,” Rosalind said. “Do not fret. If everything else between you is well, one missed ball is not the end of all.”
Cordelia wavered. “I worry, however… If we are not together, how can I know he will not revert to his old lifestyle and break my heart?”
“You are showing him that you are more than enough,” Rosalind said firmly.
“In time he will cease to think of any other woman. In fact, I am certain he does not now. It is your own fears that make you nervous. Do not let them overtake you. The duke may not yet admit it, but he is well on his way to being in love with you, and no man who is in love will stray.”
Cordelia took in her sister’s words and prayed they might be true. Yet the idea that, even as they spoke, Christian might be at his club in the company of some goddess of the night, was too much to be borne.
“You are right of course. I shall stop worrying so. I will not be one of those wives who bemoans when her husband does not do as she wishes. But… I long to hear him say that he loves me.”
Rosalind clasped her hand and squeezed. “He will say it, dearest. Only give him time. Be the wonderful self that you are, and he will not be able to deny you anything.”
Cordelia smiled faintly, though her heart remained troubled. Hope was a fragile thing, but for tonight she would cling to it, as tightly as she clutched Rosalind’s hand.