Chapter 3

Chapter Three

T he music swelled at the St. John ball the following week, lending a romantic air to the view of the swirling dancers. The ballroom was not particularly grand, but there was a light joyfulness to the entire event, probably buoyed by Mrs. St. John's ebullient way of greeting and hosting everyone, even if she saved a special smile for the family of her son's intended. Rose grinned at the sight of the colorful collection of couples from her perch near the refreshment table. Near the closer end of the floor, the same Sternwell cousin was trying his very best to impress Brooke by executing precise, formal dance steps during the entire second set. Knowing what Rose did about her sister's preference for affable, open-mannered young men, the stiff, freckled young boy had as little chance of impressing the youngest Nottingham as the sun had rising in the west.

Rose smiled to herself as she sipped her lemonade. She liked London. She liked the variety of sights and sounds and people. She liked the vast tableau of human interaction constantly on display. She might not be a particularly good artist with an actual brush, but she enjoyed painting images of people's interactions in her mind. On one side of the ballroom, Mama nodded in agreement with the other matrons—her position secure, though now limited in influence in comparison to her heyday as an un-widowed Lady Shallingsworth. On the other end, single gentlemen banded together as if there was safety in numbers. Clearly, these particular gentlemen were not disinclined enough by the ball to join their fathers in the card room, but they were not interested enough in finding a lady love either to be dancing every dance. The servants scurried about on Rose's side of the room, faithfully replenishing the contents of every glass and saucer.

One day, she might miss all of this—the diversity, the music, the vibrancy of the London Season. And knowing that their days in Town might be numbered made her all the more determined to cherish the loveliness of it all.

"No, ma'am, that is not my intent tonight," a deep male voice trickled down from the other side of the lengthy refreshment table. Rose turned slightly, curious about the unfamiliar speaker. It was rare to encounter a voice or face she did not know, but being away from society for a year had managed to alter the individuals in their orbit somewhat.

"But you must be hoping for a dance partner, are you not?" An older, more familiar, female voice replied. Rose cringed. She did not begrudge Lady Newport her position as a countess, for she did pull off a remarkable feat marrying the old earl as an older widow when he could have had his pick of younger brides. But most people in the ton were more appalled at how the woman seemed overly eager to pawn off her daughter from her earlier marriage, parading poor Miss Dunham at every society event as if she were a show horse—and a rather unremarkable one at that .

"Again, I thank you, ma'am—but I—I truly did not intend to approach this—this side of the room for—for a partner." The man did not sound as if he was stuttering because he could not speak but rather due to an obvious desire to extricate himself from Lady Newport.

Rose did not blame him, if she were to be honest.

"But my darling daughter would make a resplendent partner, Your Grace."

Rose raised a brow. If the man currently being accosted by Lady Newport was a duke, then there was even less chance of the poor fellow disengaging himself without promising a dance.

"Again, I beg your pardon. I am certain I shall be charmed by Miss—Miss, uhm?—"

"Dunham, Delilah Dunham."

"Yes, by Miss Dunham at another time."

Rose could hear the frantic retreat without needing to see it.

"Now, if you would excuse me, my lady, I am off to tend to my parched throat for a spell."

"But Your Grace?—"

The duke in question stepped away, wound his way around the edge of the table, and walked directly towards where Rose stood. Rose startled slightly, suddenly aware that she might be blocking the tray that held the most recently replenished drinks. She stepped aside as discreetly as she could, only allowing herself to glance up briefly at the approaching gentleman.

Then she stopped short, just as he did. Instincts drove her to curtsy.

"Your Grace, I—" She stopped halfway through her greeting. Was it even proper for her to address a duke she had not been introduced to? But Rose never forgot a face, and she was entirely certain that, for some chance reason that only the randomness of the universe could explain, the man who had asked to have her mistaken order at Mr. Stratberry's added to the account of the mysterious Mrs. Flambert was the very same man standing before her.

"You," he said, not accusingly or even harshly—but almost as if he was as surprised as she.

Rose decided the best course of action would be to complete her curtsy anyhow, and the tall, lithesome man dressed in the finest clothes of the evening reciprocated with a bow of his own.

"I—" He seemed to recover from his shock once he pulled back to his full height, and the kind, almost shy, look that had been on his face at the drapers passed over his features. "I did not expect?—"

"There you are!" Violet swept onto the scene, her light blue dress dazzling under the candlelight. She reached for Rose first. "I should have known you would be posed by the refreshment table. I have walked far too much for one evening just looking for you. Clive will have my hide for not resting better."

Rose smiled as she always did at Violet's dramatics. "I am sorry."

"Lady Rodworth," said the soft-spoken duke who still remained nameless somehow. "I hope you are well."

"Oh, very well, of course." Violet smiled, effortlessly enchanting. "Have the two of you managed to get yourselves acquainted?"

"I'm afraid not," said the gentlemen just as Rose herself said a quiet, "No."

"Oh, how forgetful of me!" Violet cried with a flip of her hand. It was almost incredible that a woman who acted as carefree as Violet could actually be one of the best hostesses and leaders of genteel society. The dazzling beauty probably helped. "Your Grace, may I present my sister, Miss Rose Nottingham. Rose, His Grace, the Duke of Burgess."

"Your Grace." Rose curtsied again, this time more deeply. So this was the elusive new duke who needed to find a bride. Given how winsome he looked in his evening wear, and how civilly he acted towards an unknown woman at the drapers, it seemed almost impossible to imagine he would have a difficult time finding a bride at all.

"Now, Rose, promise me you will dance with Burgess, for we need him to be seen socializing about before people label him an eccentric or anything like that."

Rose gaped at her sister, all while the duke seemed to blush. "Violet, I don't think His Grace needs any assistance on that front."

"Not if he's found his own partners, I suppose. You can sort it out amongst yourselves, can't you?" Violet flashed her practiced, Lady Rodworth smile. "Now, I am off to report to Mama, who is convinced that Brooke needs to meet the other St. John cousins."

"Violet—"

Her sister disappeared as quickly as she had appeared, leaving Rose staring helplessly at the Duke of Burgess instead.

Frederick watched with something akin to sympathy as the now-identified Miss Nottingham met his eye. He smiled, feeling more sheepish than gallant. How did all those other young men do it—strutting about displaying their titles as if they were peacock feathers? His limited interactions with the ladies tonight so far terrified him more than anything.

"I apologize, Your Grace, for my sister's behavior," Miss Nottingham said quietly.

Frederick bowed his head. "It is only her manner of being, I understand."

Miss Nottingham laughed, demurely and almost melodically. "I suppose one could say that. I fear that Rodworth has been altogether too indulgent of her dramatics. "

"Is it not only right for a husband to be supportive of his wife's true self?"

"You are far too understanding, Your Grace. Or, perhaps, too wise."

A shot of shyness charged his chest, and then his cheeks. "I fear anything I know of marriage is done purely by spectating."

"Not if Lady Newport has anything to say about it." The mischievous glint in Miss Nottingham's eye assured him that she was taking the conversation more lightly than most.

Frederick sighed, embarrassed yet relieved that his new acquaintance had overheard the conversation that had preceded theirs. "I must admit myself rather overcome by the amount of attention."

"But you are a duke, sir. Surely, there is nothing too difficult for a man of your station and pedigree."

Again, he was relieved to see a teasing twinkle in her gaze. Frederick smiled, hopefully not too awkwardly. "You'd be surprised, Miss Nottingham, at how many things a duke does not know."

"Given that you were about to retrieve your own refreshments, I must admit you have already far exceeded my lowly expectations."

Frederick chuckled. "I suppose that is rather unusual."

"Not more unusual than settling one's own bills at the drapers."

Only the kindness in her smile kept him from wishing the ground to swallow him whole. Frederick swallowed. "I do not know whether or not to avow that I do not, in fact, make it a habit to run my own errands."

Miss Nottingham stepped closer. She pressed a hand briefly on his forearm before pulling back. Her voice was lower, though not improperly so. "Thank you, Your Grace. The situation with Mr. Stratberry?—"

"He was wrong," Frederick said the first thing he did all night with confidence. "How a man could even think to take advantage of an impoverished family—" The flush on her face alerted him to his choice of words. "Not saying, of course, that your family is in any way impoverished. It is only that, well, Mr. Stratberry?—"

"Your gesture was kind, beyond kind," she saved him by answering. "I do not deny that a widowed viscountess with two daughters still out does not comprise the most affluent of households."

"To think of the man trying to take advantage of a family that way?—"

"I wondered who Mrs. Flambert was," Miss Nottingham said, forcing Frederick back from his rising indignation. It was remarkable how much the lady managed to keep so calm. "Imagine my surprise when Mr. Stratberry informed me that she was the housekeeper of a grand house in Grosvenor Square."

Frederick almost blushed again under the simple gratitude on her face. "Forgive my high-handedness."

"Why did you—do what you did?"

Frederick sighed. "I suppose I feel a strong kinship with anyone who has suffered a recent loss."

She seemed to process his statement over a quick, perceptive moment. "You miss your father."

"And my brother."

"And a child, I believe?"

"Yes." Frederick frowned. He lowered his face involuntarily. "I know it has been more than a year, but the fact remains?—"

"That the loss lingers."

He met her eye again, appreciating the empathy reflected back at him. They stood where they were, wordless companions for a good few seconds before the musicians began the opening strains of the next set.

Frederick cleared his throat and leaned forward, feeling rather too tall for his own liking, and offered his hand. "Miss Nottingham, I believe I have this dance?"

It was his turn to send her chuckling instead, apparently. "You do not have to dance with me merely because my sister says so."

"That is not the only reason."

"I do not want to owe you any more favors, Your Grace."

"I believe Lady Rodworth believed the dance to be doing me a favor—lest I be labelled an eccentric."

Miss Nottingham's grin grew. "You are a duke. In the eyes of the marriage mart, you can do no wrong."

"But would it not help if I were, shall we say, not labelled an eccentric?"

They chuckled together, and Frederick felt more at ease than he had since the beginning of the night. Frederick waited, his hand still extended. The young woman had proven a good friend, if nothing else, and he most certainly owed at least one dance to her.

"Well, Miss Nottingham?"

She seemed to dart a few glances at her surroundings before looking back at him. "Very well, Your Grace. I would be honored to?—"

"Your Grace!" The loud sound of a matron's voice, along with a large portion of her person, barged in between them. Frederick stepped back instinctively. "I cannot believe the odds of meeting you here tonight. What a marvelous coincidence, is it not?"

Frederick frowned. "I—I do not think?—"

"Surely, you must remember me?" The older woman heaved a heavy sigh. "We sat together at the musicale last night—you sat right next to my darling Hyacinth!"

Frederick tried his best to recall the vague blob of a human being that had been seated next to him last night. The lady had been quiet, mostly, and altogether forgettable. "I—of course, I?— "

"Did you not say that you would be happy to dance the quadrille with her tonight?"

Frederick's frown deepened. He remembered snippets of some conversation regarding Percy's family's ball—something indistinct about dancing. Had he managed to promise the next dance to the utterly forgettable Miss Hyacinth? He nearly socked himself in the face for having been so careless.

Percy was not entirely wrong. Frederick did desperately need help.

"I—I don't know if Miss?—"

"Zachrey," the woman supplied, one arm already reaching behind her to haul her towering daughter forward. "Miss Hyacinth Zachrey."

"Ah, right," Frederick managed to utter under his breath before Mrs. Zachrey grabbed his hand and joined it with her daughter's. The young lady did not complain, but she most certainly did not draw back. Frederick frowned. "I—I do not think?—"

"Off you go! The dance is already starting!" Mrs. Zachrey ushered them towards the floor with the force of a minor hurricane.

Frederick looked back as he stumbled forward, his eyes searching for Miss Nottingham's. It was abominably rude to offer a dance to one woman only to march off with another—even if it was not entirely of his own doing.

At least Miss Nottingham's gentle shrug and smile did not seem to indicate that he'd offended her. Frederick had few enough true friends this Season. He hardly needed an enemy.