Chapter Three

T hat night, her introduction still rang in his ears, despite the quartet playing across the ballroom.

Miss Caroline Danvers.

Dorian had known that. However, when faced with either a potential awkward silence after pretending he didn't know her name or the guaranteed awkward silence sure to follow the revelation of his uncanny ability to remember everything she'd said within earshot since they'd met… he'd faked ignorance. With Oliver looking on, and having literally just fallen on his arse, saving himself further embarrassment seemed the safest thing to do.

Especially when what he'd wanted was to ask if she'd won the ongoing war with her cousin's cat for her pillow—something he'd heard about in bits and snippets of conversation for months now. The women were far chattier on the sales floor when they didn't know they had a duke in their midst.

When he'd entered the temporary shop booth, Miss Danvers's cheeks were pink, and her eyes were bright. She'd appeared the picture of health. A relief, because when he'd stopped by two weeks ago, her voice had been strained from a sore throat. Thin lines of discomfort had pinched her lips.

Yes, he remembered everything. Now, added to the list of memories, was the brief flash of emotion she'd shown when he'd pretended not to know her name. His feigned ignorance had stung, and frankly, he felt like a jackass when he remembered that barely-there-then-gone wince, followed by a pause. He'd bet his last shilling that she had considered and discarded several replies before settling on a simple introduction. The harder she tried to be cool, calm, and collected, the more he wished she'd firm that pointed chin at him and fire off the first thing that came to mind.

She didn't look like a Caroline. Dorian knew several Carolines, and each was blonde and so cool they might as well have been carved from marble.

Exactly like the woman his mother was pointing toward with her glass. "Lady Caroline Stapleton. Her father's connections within the Whigs would be helpful should you pursue politics someday."

Dorian tried not to choke on his champagne. God, politics. No, thank you. The diplomatic service on the Continent had been interesting. Sitting in Parliament would bore him to tears.

Lady Caroline Stapleton looked like a Caroline, in all the worst ways.

Blonde hair curled around her face in the current style, while a variety of decorative objects turned her coiffure into a sculptured affair that risked poking a dance partner's eyes should they move wrong. Although beautiful, she was so rigidly composed he worried her face might crack should her lips veer beyond the polite curve she'd worn all evening. She would certainly never swear at her cousin for knocking him over. But when Miss Danvers had cursed, the professional mask had slipped, and he'd thought, Ah, there you are .

A smile teased his mouth at the memory as he drank again. "No."

Either Gloria Whitaker, Dowager Duchess of Holland, had taken her name to be aspirational, or she'd been christened in a moment of prescient clarity. Even standing on the edge of the room, she was glorious. A sheer veil fluttered from the back of her turban, secured with clusters of what he hoped was faux fruit. Pom-pom tassels bobbed and swayed from a long wrap that seemed to serve no purpose except to drape fetchingly from the crooks of her elbows as she raised a glass of champagne to her lips.

The dowager examined the women present again with the focus of a general assessing unruly troops. And like a general, she'd be happiest if people would simply put her in charge and stop meddling in her plans. Given permission, she'd be a benevolent dictator in his, and everyone else's, life. Unless he disagreed with her on something; then the benevolence faded into terse negotiations. His mother loved him to distraction, and Dorian knew that. However, her confidence that she knew best was equal to—if not greater than—the feelings of maternal adoration toward her only child. Her plan frequently trumped affection, until Dorian raised a fuss. It had always been thus.

This evening, his dismissal of a third potential wife made her sniff in annoyance.

"Miss Edwina Humphry? The freckles are unfortunate, but she's charming. Keep your children out of the sun, and you will be fine."

"She is charming—I'll grant that."

"That wasn't an outright no, so we shall call Miss Humphry a maybe."

He rather liked Miss Humphry's freckles, but if he said so, his mother would be sending wedding invitations to the printers by the weekend. A chandelier overhead cast flickering light through the room, making Miss Humphry's dark hair shine becomingly.

Rather like a certain bookseller's. In the sunshine, would Miss Humphry's hair also turn auburn?

Miss Danvers might not look like a Caroline, but Miss Humphry did look like an Edwina. Whether that was fortunate or terrible was a topic open for discussion. But not a topic he'd discuss with her, obviously. Perhaps Miss Humphry had read an interesting book recently, and they could talk about that while they danced. For expediency's sake, if he wanted to speak to her for more than two-second passes on the floor, it would have to be a waltz.

Right, then. Dorian straightened and handed his glass to a passing footman. "I'll ask Miss Humphry to dance, shall I?"

His mother's smile was a bit smug, but as he'd agreed to this bride hunt, he would have to accept the natural consequences of Gloria feeling she'd successfully coerced him into doing her bidding.

Truth be told, doing her bidding more often than not was simply easier. It wasn't as if he had conflicting plans. Not when most days, he struggled with a general feeling of disillusionment regarding the future. His mother had mentioned he would feel like himself again after the initial grief ran its course.

It might be grief, but not just for Juliet. If anything, this feeling might be grieving everything else he'd lost—the confidence born from knowing his place in the world, the belief in true love overcoming all obstacles, and a rather irrational conviction that he'd somehow done everything right to lead such a blessed life. He hadn't only lost Juliet five years ago.

Crossing the room, Dorian tried to concentrate on the familiar faces lining the walls and filling the dance floor, reminding himself he was among friends—or at least not enemies. This was a small gathering, since many families of the ton wouldn't return to Town and join the lords sitting in Parliament until the spring. Yet even in this more intimate event, the number of eyes watching to see whom he'd lead to the floor made him want to retreat to his study with a glass of brandy and a book, never to be seen again.

This past Christmas, the dowager had approached him about taking another wife. After years of marriage, he and Juliet hadn't secured an heir to the title. There had been three pregnancies, all of which ended within a few weeks of realizing she was with child. By the third, Juliet had been subdued when she'd told him they were expecting, then treated the miscarriage with a fatalistic sort of acceptance. Not long after that, he'd been called to the Continent to help in the war against Napoleon.

Gloria hadn't been unkind when she asked about his plans for an heir. In her usual way, she'd laid out her concerns, strategies, and anticipated outcome. After thinking on it for a few days, he'd suggested they assess marriage prospects before the beginning of the official Season. The sooner he could choose someone, the better. And if he could avoid ballrooms rank with the crush of bodies, even better.

Once upon a time, he'd looked forward to events like this. Loved twirling around the floor with his wife in his arms and the world at his feet. A stab of emotion in his throat warned against further progress down that mental pathway—it would only hurt. Like the old mapmakers wrote at the edges of the known, hic sunt dracones. Here be dragons . He had no intention of fighting those dragons in a room full of dancers and onlookers sipping champagne.

Instead of feeling relaxed amidst friends, he couldn't get past the distracting ache of his feet after being on them all day. With each passing minute, a faint throbbing grew behind his left eye, and something on his cravat was making his neck itch.

Despite those general discomforts, Dorian was having a better night than Oliver. The Earl of Southwyn and his fiancée, Miss Althea Thompson, moved gracefully through the steps of the dance, social masks firmly in place while not facing one another. During the brief intervals when they were partnered, there appeared to be a hushed argument happening.

Or rather, Althea was having an argument, while Oliver wore a blank expression as if his mind was elsewhere.

Dorian shook his head. He and Juliet hadn't argued often. Hardly ever, in fact. But they'd had one disagreement at a ball. Biting words in hissed whispers flung like arrows, two or three seconds at a time. It was miserable, as he recalled. Funny that he could remember going to bed angry, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what they'd been fighting about.

Time might be the greatest force in nature. It erased and healed so much.

Bowing to a matron his mother had entertained in the yellow drawing room yesterday, Dorian offered a few polite phrases before moving on. On the far wall, Miss Humphry appeared deep in conversation with an older woman. Her mother? A chaperone? He'd find out soon enough.

Like most of the marriage prospects, Miss Humphry was young. To be honest, younger than he'd like. They'd shared several brief exchanges over the last few weeks at events like this one, but he'd never singled her out for a dance. Although he couldn't imagine her in his bed, once Dorian knew her better, that might change. She had a sly wit, which indicated she was an excellent conversationalist. No way of knowing until he spoke with her beyond the pleasantries. If she had a sharp intellect, Miss Humphry could be tolerable, at the very least. They might even get on well and be content.

There would be no grand romance this time. He had already lived that and dealt with the bitterness that followed. At the moment, the shock and pain of reading Juliet's deathbed confessional letter rose in his memory, despite having faded over the years. Most days he didn't taste the heartbreak on his tongue—especially after realizing cynicism was sweeter than pain.

And it was cynicism paired with logic that allowed him to see the wisdom of the dowager's suggestion to remarry. As she'd gently but devastatingly pointed out over wassail and stuffed goose, there was a good chance Dorian wouldn't need to deal with his new bride for long. After all, his father had died at the age of thirty-six, and his grandfather passed before the age of fifty.

In a few months' time, Dorian would be thirty-six. If his father could clutch his chest and suddenly collapse in the hallway on a random Tuesday, so might he. Should that happen, Dorian needed to do right by the duchy and leave an heir.

Thus, a bride. An aristocratic woman who would have the training and social connections to deal with not only his strong-willed mother, but the rest of society, and in his absence, to raise the next Duke of Holland.

Miss Humphry's eyes—green, not the rich brown of Caroline Danvers's—widened when he stopped and offered a bow.

"Miss Humphry, may I have your next waltz if it's not already taken?"

"Of… of course, Your Grace."

Dorian forced his cheeks into a smile. He'd told his mother he would try, and try he would.

Half an hour later, Oliver found him in the hall outside the card room. "Going to play a few hands to pass the time?" he asked.

Except, Oliver already knew the answer, because he leaned against the floral papered wall beside Dorian. As he relaxed, his shoulders settled into their normal place instead of up by his ears. They both needed a break, it would seem.

"Hiding, and I'm not afraid to admit it," Dorian answered. "It's worse than it was the year before I met Juliet. Everyone is watching. I'll have to constantly be on guard against mamas trying to catch me alone with their daughter. Women don't talk to me—they simper or go silent and expect me to carry the conversation. Makes a man feel hunted."

"Such a trial it is to be a young, rich, handsome duke. You can't see the tears, but my heart sheds them for your plight."

They were quiet a moment, attendants of the event buzzing down the hall and around the corner from their dark hiding place.

"So… Miss Humphry," Oliver ventured.

"We danced one waltz. No more, no less."

"The whispers are already circulating. I counted three women glaring at Miss Humphry during your dance and overheard others speculating on your wedding date."

Dorian pressed the heel of his palm against the persistent ache behind his left eye. "It wasn't even the supper set."

"One of the dowager's suggested brides?"

"Yes." The word was part answer, part sigh. The waltz could have gone better. Miss Humphry had been quiet, but there were myriad reasons to explain that. Surprise, worry, or even a blasted headache like the one he was dealing with. Unfortunately, holding her in his arms for the dance hadn't brought an immediate feeling of rightness, and her company hadn't offered additional clues to assure him they'd suit. "I'd rather the whole ordeal be done and over with as soon as possible."

Oliver's crooked grin held little sympathy. "Don't relish the idea of choosing an infant bride from this year's debutantes?"

"You have no idea what it's like. You've been promised to someone since the cradle." Dorian's shudder was genuine.

Oliver shrugged. "I may not be familiar with the hunt, but I can understand feeling more like a title or a role than a man. My engagement—or rather, engagements—hasn't exactly been romance and roses either."

Wincing, Dorian cursed his flippant words. If anyone understood marrying for duty, it was Oliver. "Have you heard from Dorcas?"

"Actually, yes. We're friends. I suppose growing up believing you'll marry someone has that effect. She writes regularly to tell me how much she enjoys married life. Never a word about the muddle she left me to unravel, though. Thanks to that damned betrothal agreement, when Dorcas eloped, her father was well within his rights to hand me Althea instead. I feel like a pair of old boots, passed down from one sister to another."

"At least you didn't love Dorcas. That would have been devastating. Althea seems nice, though. Pretty, and from the same good family."

"Althea is fine, except she acts like she hates me now. We used to get along famously when I was marrying her sister. Now it's practically pistols at dawn every time we meet. Bodes well for our marital bliss." Oliver straightened. "I need a drink. Something stronger than champagne."

Dorian pushed off the wall and tugged his waistcoat into place. "Game room should have brandy."

As they walked, Oliver asked, "Miss Humphry—yes or no?"

"The dance was stiff and awkward, despite my best efforts." As they'd danced, he'd tried admiring her eyes but found himself wishing they were brown. The wit and intelligence he'd encountered before had been absent, perhaps because she felt the pressure of everyone's eyes on them. "I'll call on her later in the week. Try to strike up a real conversation before moving on. But it's probably a no."

It hadn't been disappointment he'd felt as he returned her to her mother but relief. What that meant for his desire to find a bride before the height of the Season, he'd rather not contemplate. One day soon, he'd have to settle on someone. But the relief that the decision wasn't going to be made right then had been immediate. While he didn't harbor fanciful notions of finding love again, surely marrying a woman he could imagine living with wasn't too much to ask.