Chapter Ten

M alcolm should not have let it go on this long. He cursed inwardly—and blamed his mother for avoiding him during the past week.

Ever since she had flown into a rage at the Duke of Seaton's townhouse, upset at Lady Euphemia, Mama had barely been seen. She had begun taking breakfast in her bedchamber, often not until noon, telling Ada that she was merely preparing herself for the late nights when they would not come home until dawn and suggested that her daughter do the same. Mama had made herself sparse at teatime and even a few dinners, conveying through servants that she was visiting with old friends who had just arrived in town. The few times Malcolm saw her, Ada was around, and he did not want to draw his sister into the crossfire, which was bound to occur when he told Mama that she would not be needed to find a wife for him.

She had taken Ada a few places with her as she called upon others, which he thought was good because his sister moped about, not being able to see her friend. He had hoped when they had gone to the modiste's shop for a fitting on two occasions that Ada might run into Lady Euphemia, but that had not been the case. He was certain his mother had changed appointment times so as not to allow that to occur.

Ada confessed to him that she had left a note for Lady Euphemia at Madame Dumas' shop, pleading with the modiste to pass it along to her friend. Madame had agreed, which if discovered, would have angered Mama terribly. Malcolm supposed the dressmaker was willing to take the risk of losing the business of one client versus the entire Strong family.

He had hoped after dinner this evening that he might pull his mother aside and speak with her. Unfortunately, she had not made an appearance. When he asked Williams about her absence, the butler replied that Her Grace was dining in her rooms, wanting to have plenty of time to dress for this evening's ball.

Ada had not been affected by their mother's frequent absences. In fact, she had confessed to him that she felt a bit relieved. Malcolm had watched her leave the table to go and bathe and dress for tonight's opening ball, thinking how much he loved his sister and hoped that she would find a gentleman to her liking, one who would treat her well and bring some happiness into her life.

He retired to his own rooms, and Barker informed him that hot water was on its way. Malcolm stripped off his clothes and tossed on a banyan as he waited for it to arrive. He glanced at the evening wear laying on the bed, thinking how the last time he had worn it, he had been in search of his duchess. He pushed aside the bitterness, vowing he would not make a mess of things this time. It was a new Season. A time for new beginnings.

Hopefully, one with Lady Euphemia.

He had thought often about her during the past week, keenly feeling her absence, just as Ada had. Malcolm found himself longing to hear her opinions, even though he did not always agree with them. Lady Euphemia could be quite stubborn in her convictions, someone who always believed she was in the right. And yet it did not seem to matter to him. He yearned to see her effervescent smile. She was so curious and enthusiastic about the smallest of things. He believed he would never grow bored in her company.

But he had yet to make the impression upon her he wished to make. Malcolm wanted Lady Euphemia to see him as a person worth getting to know, not simply someone who took up a seat in the carriage or drawing room. He wanted to talk with her. Disagree with her. Tease her. Understand her.

More than anything, though, he wanted to kiss her.

Perhaps that would be what finally made her see him as a person. As a man. One interested in her, as a woman.

But how would he go about kissing her?

He had never kissed Imogen before they wed. They had only seen each other a handful of times before their betrothal was announced. Once that occurred and it was considered proper to be in a room alone with her, he had only spent a quarter-hour in her company before he tired of her and made an excuse to leave. They had wed two days after that encounter, and Malcolm knew now they never should have. They hadn't a single thing in common.

After their wedding in town, they had returned to Waterside, arriving late in the day. Imogen had appeared tired, and he had told her he would have a light supper sent up to her so that she might get some rest. He had wanted to take her around the estate the next day to show off her new home to her, but she did not ride, something he had not known. When he asked her about it, she told him horses frightened her because of their size, and she had never learned to ride one because of her fears.

He had traipsed off to the stables without her, telling her he had tenants to visit and would be out all day long, instructing his new wife to have Mrs. Calley, the housekeeper, take her around the house to familiarize her with it. When he returned, he did dine with her and then asked if he might visit her in her rooms that evening. She had agreed, not being able to meet his gaze.

The first time they had made love, she wept the entire time. Imogen was timid to begin with, and every time he touched her, she flinched. Malcolm had tried to be loving and respectful, assuring her what they did was what all married couples did in order to make a babe, but she had wept all the harder. When he had broken through her maidenhead, the tears had flowed all the more. He had finished quickly and thanked her, returning to his own room.

They had not seen one another the next day because Imogen kept to her rooms the entire time, saying she was indisposed.

Malcolm had visited her at night half a dozen times in that first month, doing his husbandly duty as his wife lay silently beneath him. When she found herself with child, she did not even have the courage to tell him to his face. Instead, his duchess had written a note and had it delivered to him, explaining that she was increasing and that it was unnecessary for him to visit her bedchamber for the foreseeable future.

That had been all the excuse he needed, and he rarely saw or thought of her after that. He did not take his marriage vows lightly, however. He kept no mistress in the nearby village, nor would he ever think to dally with one of the maids. Malcolm had become like a monk and had remained so even until now, long after Imogen and the babe's deaths.

An hour later, he was bathed and dressed, waiting downstairs for Mama and Ada. Malcolm still hadn't a clue how or where he might kiss Lady Euphemia. Hundreds of guests were present at a ball. He supposed he might ask her to walk along the terrace with him. That was a possibility, but it still wasn't private enough. It wasn't as if he could take her to a quiet, unoccupied room and talk with her. If found alone, they would be forced to wed. At any rate, he was gentleman enough not to do something of this nature and compromise her. And despite being young, Malcolm had the feeling that if she were placed in such a desperate situation, Lady Euphemia would rather leave town with her reputation in tatters and return to her beloved Shadowcrest, spending the rest of her life tending to her array of animals.

He definitely would call upon her tomorrow, as he supposed many other suitors would do. Perhaps he could create some opportunity at the Seaton townhouse in order to be able to be alone with her and kiss her. Not just a friendly touch of lips. Malcolm determined Lady Euphemia needed to be swept off her feet.

It surprised him when Mama was the first to appear, and he told her how nice she looked.

"Of course, I look my best, Waterbury," she said crisply. "After all, I am bringing out my only daughter to Polite Society this evening. Others will be looking at you and me as much as they do her. We are a reflection of Ada. Keep that in mind."

"Mama, I must address something with you that I—"

"I do not want to hear it," she said dismissively, angering him. After all, he was a duke. She should listen to him when he wished to speak to her.

Controlling his temper, he said, "Whether you wish to hear it or not, I am going to say it."

"Ah, Ada! Aren't you a picture of loveliness?" Mama cried.

Malcolm turned, seeing his sister float down the stairs in an elegant gown. The color complimented Ada's hair and skin, and his sister absolutely glowed.

Reaching out his hand, he took hers, leading her the remaining steps.

"You are beautiful," he said, his gaze meeting hers, seeing how pleased she was at his compliment.

"Do you truly think so? Or are you merely saying that because I am your sister and you are supposed to compliment me?"

"Once you see the number of men I have to fight to keep away from you, you will believe me," he teased, thinking he never used to tease anyone and had only begun doing so after being in Lady Euphemia's company.

"The carriage is waiting, Your Grace," Williams said. "And if I might be so bold, Mrs. Williams and I would like to wish Lady Ada the very best as she makes her debut tonight."

"Thank you, Williams," Ada said graciously.

"You've had compliments enough," Mama said, dampening the festive mood. "Too many will go to your head. Let us be off, Waterbury."

It angered him, Mama ruining this moment for Ada. Was she so jealous of her own daughter that she couldn't allow a compliment or two to be given to Ada?

Malcolm took her hand and slipped it through his arm. "You look exquisite, poppet. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise."

In the carriage, Mama began lecturing Ada on how to comport herself this evening. She was not to dance with any gentleman more than once and she must not show enthusiasm toward any particular partner. Mama emphasized avoiding gentlemen who were mere barons or viscounts, saying they were not worthy of Ada's consideration.

He interrupted. "I have met a few men at White's who hold those titles, Mama, and they are well-mannered, pleasant fellows. I do not think Ada should limit herself, especially on this opening night of the Season."

"You have paid for your sister's wardrobe, Waterbury," Mama said. "That is the extent of your involvement. It is a mother's job to make certain her daughter weds the most eligible bachelor available."

He frowned. "I thought you said I would be included in the decision regarding the man Ada wishes to be her husband."

Mama sniffed haughtily. "And I believe I have told you that it is my decision to make. Of course, I will inform you of the name of the gentleman I select, but—"

His temper flared. "No buts, Mama," he said firmly. "I do not want to appear harsh with you, but this is Ada's decision to make. Yes, she is free to seek your advice—or mine—but she is the one who will wed the gentleman and spend the remainder of her life living with him. We cannot force someone upon her, simply because he has a revered family name or a title that goes back for generations. I want Ada to find happiness this Season and not be miserable for a lifetime."

"Balderdash!" Mama said loudly, her cheeks growing bright red. "Happiness has nothing to do with a marriage."

"Then perhaps it should," he said, his own voice even louder than hers. "Do you know I have never been happy? No, you wouldn't. Because you have never really asked anything about me. You never asked who my friends were when I was growing up. What grades I earned. What sports I exceled at. If I preferred to ride or fish. You are my mother—and yet I do not believe you have the faintest idea who your son is."

"Why should I?" she challenged. "Men and women go their separate ways. My role was to birth a son and give Waterbury his heir. I did so. I was wed to him for over three decades, and I could not tell you one thing about him. We led separate lives. That is the way things should be."

"I do not want a marriage like that, Mama," Ada said earnestly. "I want to know my husband. I want to be a good partner to him. I want us to see our children every day."

Mama whirled, almost snarling. "You are a fool, Ada. That Strong girl has filled your head with impossible notions."

"That Strong girl is the best friend I will ever have," Ada retorted, not backing down. "And her family is full of love. Siblings who love one another. Spouses who love each other and are openly affectionate. Parents who love their children."

"How dare you speak to me in such a manner?" Mama said. "You are never to speak to that wicked girl—or any of her family—ever again."

Determination filled his sister's eyes. "I will speak to whomever I choose to, Mama. And I will wed the man I wish to. Waterbury said I could."

Malcolm reached for Ada's hand and squeezed it. "I support what Ada wants, Mama," he said calmly. "While I will certainly look into the man who wins her heart and make certain he is not marrying her strictly for her dowry, I will still trust her judgment. The same holds true for me. I am a grown man, a duke of eight and twenty. I do not need you to choose a bride for me. I am perfectly capable of making that decision myself."

His mother looked from him to Ada, her jaw falling open in shock. "The both of you have plotted together. You have betrayed me," she declared.

"No, Mama," he insisted. "We simply wish to decide for ourselves what will be the most important decision we ever make," he told her, echoing sentiments Ada had previously expressed to him.

"You do not want me to be a part of anything," she cried. "And I gave birth to you both!"

He and Ada exchanged a glance. Both knew Mama giving birth had been the last thing she had truly ever done for either of them. Servants, tutors, and governesses had raised them. Their parents had not shown the slightest bit of interest in either of them.

The carriage, which had barely been moving, came to a stop. The door opened, with a footman standing in the doorway.

"It's like it always is for the opening ball, Your Grace. Traffic is so heavy, we are packed in with nowhere to go. If you are to make it to the ball, you'll need to walk from here. It's only another two blocks."

"Then that is what we will do," he said.

Malcolm climbed down the steps the footman had placed and reached up a hand, taking Ada's and handing her down. When he did the same for Mama, her eyes narrowed.

"Mama?" he asked.

"I am not coming," she told him, her jaw set stubbornly.

Stunned, he climbed back into the carriage and said, "But your daughter is making her come-out. It is up to you to introduce her to the members of the ton ."

She snorted. "You are a duke. You do it. I am going home."

"Mama, please, do not act in this fashion," he pleaded.

Her gaze met his, and he was taken aback. All Malcolm could see was hate filling them. He made a decision which he hoped to be the right one.

"You are right. I will take care of Ada. She does not need a venomous viper by her side this evening. I will see that she meets a good number of people and that her programme is filled. I will have the coachman take you home now."

For a moment, he caught the look of surprise in her eyes. Quickly, though, the veil was lowered, and he closed the carriage door.

"Malcolm?" Ada asked, uncertainty in her voice, and he wondered just how much of their conversation his sister might have overheard.

He took her hand and called up to the driver, "Her Grace is feeling unwell. A sudden headache has come upon her. Please see her home and then return for us."

"Yes, Your Grace," the coachman replied.

Tucking his sister's hand into the crook of his arm, they set out, following others who had also had to abandon their own carriages.

"Mama is not coming this evening?"

"No. She has chosen not to," he replied evenly, not wanting to worry Ada.

"Thank you."

He stopped and looked at her. "For what?"

"For being my big brother. For looking out for me. For sticking by my side. I know tonight will be infinitely harder without Mama to smooth the way, but I must tell you, Malcolm, I feel as if the heaviest burden has been lifted from me. It is as if I could float along this street."

Grinning, he said, "I know exactly what you mean."

An hour later, they had gone through the receiving line. He had introduced his sister to several gentlemen, all men from White's whom he had visited with over the past few weeks. Her eyes sparkled and her smile never wavered.

"You must also agree to dance with a few ladies, Waterbury," Ada admonished. "How else are you going to meet your new duchess?"

"Why don't we go and say hello to the Strongs?" he suggested. "I know you and Lady Euphemia are dying to speak with one another."

"Oh, yes. Please."

They set off to where the Strongs held court, and Lady Euphemia glowed seeing her friend. He listened to her idea of them dining together after the supper dance and decided he would see if Lady Euphemia still had that number open on her programme.

With his sister engaged in conversation with a new gentleman, Malcolm asked, "Would you like for me to sign your dance card, Lady Euphemia?"

Without a moment's hesitation, she replied, "No, Your Grace. You should choose to dance with someone else. Not me."

No? She had just told him no?

But he was a duke. No one ever told a duke no.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, hoping he had misheard her.

Smiling up at him, Lady Euphemia said, "You heard me, Your Grace. I do not wish to dance with you. Actually, I stated it poorly. I should not dance with you."

"Why not?" he boldly asked, wondering where this might be leading.

"Because you are looking for a wife," she explained. "You should be circulating through the ballroom, now that you have seen to your sister's dance card being all but filled. If I dance a set with you, it will be one less opportunity you have to meet your future duchess." Her eyes were bright with mischief. "I do not want to be blamed for that."

She leaned in, and he caught the scent of gardenias. "But at some point, you simply must share with me why Her Grace did not come with you this evening. I know she is not ill as you said."

He cocked one eyebrow.

Grinning, she nodded. "She has wanted to run your life and Lady Ada's ever since I met the two of you. Tonight, of all nights, is not an evening she would miss. Her Grace would be in her element, the puppet master pulling the strings, making the two of you dance to her tune."

"You are calling me a puppet?" he asked, his temper flaring, because what she said came too close to the truth.

Immediately, Lady Euphemia appeared contrite. "I apologize, Your Grace. I have grown too familiar with you. You have become like a brother to me these past few weeks of our acquaintance." She chuckled. "Well, at least a silent brother since you are always lurking about Ada. I admire how protective you are of her. And something tells me that you finally stood up to Her Grace—for both your and Lady Ada's sake. She is probably at home, sulking, because you and your sister wish to make your own matches without her forcing her opinions on you and making the matches herself."

"You are very clever, my lady, and you speak close to the truth. But you have one thing absolutely wrong."

She frowned. "What is that?"

He smiled his most charming smile, knowing it was devastating and that she had yet to see it.

"Dance the supper dance with me and find out."