Page 42 of To Defend a Damaged Duke (Regency Rossingley #2)
SUCH WAS HIS social insignificance. Tommy was practically seated in the servant’s quarters.
He didn’t know the young woman on his left, and he never would; whatever the bespectacled chap on her left was saying must have been riveting.
Over the (cold) entrees, the (cold) soup, the meats, the stews, and the desserts, Tommy became more familiar with the angular line of her right shoulder blade than the contours of her face.
A low door opened to his right, possibly leading to a cellar if the welcome draught was a marker. Tommy’s dinner companion wouldn’t have noticed if he fell through it.
An immaculately restored and composed Mrs de Villiers sat diagonally across from him, the envy of nearly every woman in the room.
Her self-satisfied smile hinted she was fully aware of that fact.
Angel sat not too far away, steadily chomping through everything placed in front of him and washing it down with claret.
Tommy even caught occasional glimpses of Rossingley’s blond head, off in the highfalutin distance.
But he was far too far down the pecking order to see Benedict.
Tommy felt him though. He’d felt the waves of relief flooding from him as the plan had unfolded, as the tide of uncertainty swung in his favour.
As Lyndon’s friends distanced themselves, shuffling away until he stood alone, malevolent, drunk, ridiculed.
The scheme could scarcely have gone any better.
But Tommy sensed Benedict’s pain, too, at having to endure such a public pantomime, at having to behave in the kind of grubby manner to which he was ill-suited, for no other reason than that his blameless life and that of his blameless brother, Francis, and his one true love, could continue undisturbed.
But, even more, Tommy felt Benedict bleeding out for his lost brother and his unconditional love for a troubled man unworthy of even a fraction of his love and his forgiveness but freely offering both anyway.
And Tommy knew Benedict would continue trying to persuade his twin to accept them long after all this hoo-ha had died down.
As surely as the ton would hold extravagant balls and the scandal mongers would find something to tattle about, he understood these things.
Was Tommy attending his last ball ever? He damned hoped so. And the sooner it was over, the better, so, at last, he could be reunited with Benedict and perhaps escape somewhere private with him.
An insistent rattling sounded in the distance from a spot towards the important end of the table. All around, the chattering voices quieted. Even the woman next to Tommy paused for breath.
A very-pleased-with-himself, Lord Ludham, stood up to speak.
“Your Grace, my lords, my ladies, and gentlemen,” he began in a ponderous fashion. “Good evening to you all. And thank you, Lord Horton, for allowing me to speak.” He nodded a bow. “As you all know, I’m not a man of many words.”
Tommy’s heart sank. In his experience, that line presaged all the longest speeches.
“Brevity is the soul of wit,” Lord Ludham continued, his booming baritone probably reaching the ears of the good citizens of Piccadilly. “As you’ll soon learn for yourselves on the tenth page of my discourse.”
Tommy relaxed. He knew he liked the man.
“And, I think we can all agree—” Lord Ludham’s gaze skirted the assembled gathering. “—this evening has been eventful enough. However, there is just one more announcement before the ladies withdraw.”
His long, contented sigh echoed around the packed dining room.
“Our dearest Isabella, the youngest of my and Henrietta’s offspring, has been a most wonderful daughter.
We thank her for the nineteen years of unbroken joy she has bestowed on us.
” He flashed a surprisingly roguish grin along the length of the table.
“I am fully aware she turned twenty November last, but I’m not counting the few months since because, frankly, there was nothing joyful about endeavouring to follow her exploits. ”
Hoots of laughter followed this declaration amidst shouts of hear, hear , the majority from Lord Ludham’s wife. As the merriment died down, he carried on.
“So, it is with utmost pleasure that I announce her impending nuptials to Lord Francis Oswaldo Edward John Fitzsimmons, third son of the late thirteenth Duke of Ashington. Welcome, Lord Fitzsimmons, to the family!”
At this, he offered up his glass, all following suit. “Over the years, dear Francis, I’ve come to think of you as the dear son we never asked for. A toast to the both of you! Hip, hip, hooray!”