Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

“… s

uch a grand ball,” a woman said to her companion as she passed.

“Indeed, a night for love,” her dance partner agreed as they headed to the dance floor.

Harry Ridlington, the Duke of Sheffield, rolled his eyes at the notion and then looked out over the dance floor. People were twirling to the sound of the quadrille, their muted chatter and giggles filling the ballroom and mingling with the whispers of those who stood around the dance floor to watch.

He took a swig of his cognac and leaned against the wall, one foot crossed over the other. A quick glance at his pocket watch revealed that it was far too early to leave. It was bad form to leave one of these balls before midnight.

“Your Grace,” a feminine voice said beside him.

He turned, unpleasantly surprised to be drawn from his thoughts. A woman stood before him, her blonde hair styled elaborately atop her head. Her blue gown flowed around her hips in the A-line style that was currently popular.

For a moment, he smiled as he recalled the details of contemporary fashion—empire waists and muslin fabric, pastel colors, and discreet makeup. He knew that it was all but an affront to good taste to wear puce-colored garments, and that men were supposed to soak their pantaloons overnight to achieve the tight look he saw on many gentlemen tonight. Then he thought of the reason why he knew all of this, about the young lady who’d taught him, and the smile froze on his lips, for she would never dance at a ball, never wear those gowns she’d so admired. Not now, not ever.

“You have a lovely smile,” the woman said, snapping him back to reality.

“Thank you,” he muttered, finding it quite unusual that the woman would be so forward in her manner of addressing him.

He wasn’t used to it, nor did he like to be paid Spanish coin. Harry saw his scowling visage reflected in her eyes and noted the way her cheeks twitched with uncertainty.

“Lady Unah Baxter,” the woman said, as though he should remember her. He did not.

“Lady Unah.” He nodded once. “It is nice to make your acquaintance.”

This time, her smile faltered entirely, and she pouted. “We met at dinner at Sir Richard’s home, not a fortnight ago,” she reminded him, the accusation seeping into her voice.

Of course. Sir Richard Templeton, his uncle, had a penchant for hosting dinners and balls at his home in the hope of elevating his status in Society. As the second son of an earl, he had been cursed to always stand behind his brother. He’d never had a hope of becoming an earl, especially not now that his older brother had several sons of his own.

Indeed, it had looked as though the closest his uncle would ever come to a title or power was when he’d been knighted due to his valiant service in His Majesty’s army. That was until Harry had become his ward and the management of the Dukedom of Sheffield had fallen to him, as per Harry’s father’s will.

The late Duke had no close family of his own, and the way Sir Richard told it, the late Duke hadn’t wanted his wife’s older brother to take charge of both an earldom and a dukedom, as too much power could easily corrupt a man.

Thus, Sir Richard had spent a few glorious years holding the keys to one of England’s most powerful dukedoms—a position he still craved.

Now that Harry was of age and had been managing the dukedom for almost eight years, his uncle always sought ways to remain popular.

One of those ways was to host fancy dinners and balls to bring the high society of London together. It had been at such a dinner that Harry had apparently met this young lady, who was eager to reacquaint herself with him.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Unah. I do not recall our previous meeting.”

“Right,” she muttered, looking away, her hazel eyes darting around the room as if she were searching for an excuse to leave.

She didn’t need one. Truthfully, Harry had no intention of carrying on this conversation. He knew what she wanted. She wanted to be asked to dance. She wanted to set her cap for him. Yes, probably she had entertained lofty dreams of becoming his Duchess ever since they had supposedly met at his uncle’s dinner.

Harry wasn’t a cruel man, but he also didn’t like to waste his time, and thus he stood straight and nodded his head once.

“Well, I hope you enjoy your ball, Lady Unah,” he said and then walked away, leaving her standing there like an unpicked flower.

He had to get out of here. He despised balls. He despised dinners and the opera. Not because he was antisocial, but because he hated that he was always among those who were the center of attention. Blasted title.

“Harry,” his uncle said in his deep voice as he stepped out from behind a pillar.

Like Harry, Sir Richard was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and an angular face. They also shared their blue eyes and blond hair. At times, they had been mistaken for brothers, although these days, Sir Richard’s face was marked with lines that spoke of his advanced age.

“What a meager lot,” he remarked. “You would have thought that they would have some higher-caliber ladies here tonight. And how unaware of their mediocrity they are. Look at them. They all think they are diamonds of the first water.”

Harry licked his lips. “Perhaps,” he said.

“Are you going to ask anyone to dance?” his uncle inquired, although without much interest.

“I have not met anyone who has caught my fancy,” Harry replied.

“Well,” his uncle said with a shrug, “I suppose you ought to at least dance with somebody. These ladies are tolerable at best, it is true, but it would be polite. Lord Worcester’s daughters are not awful to look at, although they’re not exactly pedigreed. They’ll do for a dance.”

Harry frowned and followed his uncle’s gaze to the three women standing by the door. There appeared to be a disagreement of some sort between two of the women as the chestnut-haired lady turned around, her demi-train fluttering in the air as she made for the garden.

He chewed on his bottom lip, wondering what was going on when his uncle poked him in the arm.

“Are you paying any attention?”

He looked at his uncle. “Uncle Richard, what is it?”

“Sir Richard when we are in public. You know this, Harry.”

Harry suppressed the urge to demand his uncle call him ‘Your Grace’ in that case, knowing it would lead nowhere.

“What is it?” he repeated instead, in as civil a manner as he could.

“I said you might consider a union with the Duke of Hemingford’s daughter. She is a prime article, and she comes from money. It would be good for our family. Plus, Hemingford is on his last legs. He’s desperate to secure his daughter’s future, and he owns several estates, one bordering Ridlington Estate. We could consolidate his properties with ours. Do not forget he does not have a male heir.”

Harry shrugged. The names and faces of the lords and ladies of the ton were all merging into one. “I am not really interested.”

“Not interested?” his uncle scoffed. “And who, pray tell, do you suggest will produce an heir to the dukedom? Do you want the estate I’ve worked so hard for to go to the Crown? Heaven knows if I had an eligible daughter, I would have insisted that you marry her, to keep our line pure, but that is not an option,” he said bitterly.

Harry felt bile rise in his throat, as it so often did when he had to have conversations with his uncle. The idea of being forced into marriage—let alone one with a cousin—was distasteful to him. He knew weddings among cousins and marriages of convenience were common, but he’d never considered such a thing. If he were to marry… well, he ’d make the choice, not his uncle.

“Indeed, it is not,” Harry replied.

His uncle took a deep breath, and Harry knew that this was one of those moments where he had to pick his battles. He could continue antagonizing his uncle, which would result in an argument. While Harry would enjoy making the older man’s hackles rise, the price would be steeper than he’d want to pay.

Sir Richard had never been the loving sort of uncle an orphaned child might wish for. Quite the opposite, in fact. Authoritarian and domineering, he had shaped Harry’s life since Harry had the bad fortune of becoming his ward at the age of five, when both of his parents were shipwrecked on the way to Ireland and drowned.

He had his aunt by his side for some years, and she’d provided him with love and affection from the start. She had been eager for a child of her own when he’d arrived and had embraced him with enthusiasm—until she too passed away in a dreadful carriage accident when he was eleven.

With their family ever-shrinking, Harry hated that his uncle was his only close relative. The others lived far away and rarely ventured to London, where Harry kept an estate on the outskirts of town.

“Let us not quarrel,” he finally said, not wanting to let the night get uglier than it was. “I need to take the air.”

“Very well. Do go take the air. Let’s both pray it clears your mind. For, Harry, sometimes I do not know what to do with you. Your father would be disappointed.”

“Would he?” Harry asked. “I remember…” He clamped his mouth shut. Anything he would say would only antagonize his uncle, and that was the last thing he needed right now.

He rolled his shoulders back, nodded at his uncle, and made his way into the garden.

The cool evening breeze was like a balm to his heated face. He made his way down the wide stone steps, the heel of his shoes clicking against the cobblestone only to fall silent when he stepped on the grass. It was summer now, and the flowers were in bloom. He barely noticed. He had never been one to find enjoyment in flowers, birds, stars, or any such nonsense.

Running a hand through his hair, he heard a sound from somewhere to his right. He turned, narrowing his eyes when he heard it again. It was a sob.

Suddenly, he remembered the young woman who had made her way into the garden just a few minutes ago. Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets, wondering what he should do. He wasn’t the type to care about being a savior to a young woman in distress, least of all one he did not know.

Still, before he could make up his mind, the woman came out from behind a hedgerow. She fiddled with her reticule but stopped short when she saw him.

Harry turned left, then right, and then made his way toward her, deciding it would be rude to walk away now that they’d made eye contact. Besides, he couldn’t deny that seeing her in distress did stir something inside him. He wasn’t heartless, after all. Besides, what would his sweet Helen say if she knew he considered leaving a young woman alone in the garden when she was clearly in distress?

No. As always, thoughts of Helen guided him down the right path.

“Are you quite alright? Are you hurt?” he asked.

The young woman looked at him with her lips slightly parted, her eyes glazed over. Some of the pearl powder on her face had been washed away by her tears, leaving streaks on her cheeks.

“I am not hurt. Nobody hurt me,” she said.

He stood there, his hands in his pockets as he examined her. She was beautiful, there was no denying it. Far more beautiful than many of the other women he had seen inside the ballroom. Her eyes were almost almond-shaped, and while they’d been dull earlier, they were now glinting with irritation.

Irritation at what? Him?

Did she want to be alone? Harry was not altogether unfamiliar with young ladies. While he was far from what one might call a rake, he had his experiences over the years. Nothing serious, but sometimes he found it difficult to understand women. Indeed, in his life, there had only ever been one young lady to whom he had been close enough to understand her thoughts and feelings, but…

He shook his head. There was no use comparing Helen to this young woman or any of these young ladies at the ball.

“Were you looking for something out here, Sir?” she asked, and he blinked, realizing that she was talking to him. “I mean, Your Grace.”

So, she did know who he was… Perhaps she was trying to figure out the best way to lure him in?

“I came here to take the air,” he replied, wondering why she hadn’t gone back inside yet.

Was it possible that she wanted to talk about whatever was troubling her? He ran his tongue over his top lip as he pondered this. If she didn’t want to talk to him, she would have left by now. Yet, she was standing there, looking at him just as he was looking at her.

“Are you quite sure you’re alright? If somebody harmed you, I am more than happy to intervene,” he offered. Although, in his heart of hearts, he hoped that she would decline.

Fortunately, she did. “No. As I said, nobody hurt me.”

“Well then,” he said and remained standing there.

He assumed that she was going to walk past him and go back into the house, but she didn’t budge from her spot.

What does she want? This is terribly awkward.

“Do you need something, Your Grace?” she asked.

Suddenly, he realized she was waiting for him to leave. The audacity! This was neither of their homes, and if he wanted to be out here in the garden, he would be.

“I do not need anything but to take the air, Miss. Pray, does my presence bother you?” he asked, hearing the tinge of vexation in his voice.

“It is Lady Arabella. And no, you do not bother me. But I feel uncomfortable, for there is only the two of us out here, and it is not proper. If anyone saw us…”

“I am not keeping you from going inside,” he said, gesturing to the door.

“I would like to stay here,” she mumbled.

She bit her bottom lip as she looked to the ballroom, reluctance flashing across her face, and he understood.

Her strange behavior had nothing to do with him. It was the notion of going back inside that was troubling her. That’s why she was standing out here so gawkily. Something in the ballroom had upset her, and she had escaped to the garden, much like he had.

“Miss, are you quite sure—Excuse me, Lady Arabella. Are you quite sure that you do not want to talk about what has upset you? Judging by the state of your face…”

Her hands flew to her cheeks. “The state of my face?” she asked.

“It is quite clear that you have been crying.”

He pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and handed it to her. However, instead of taking it, she brushed past him and back into the house. The door closed behind her, and he saw her spinning around, looking back into the garden. Then she disappeared, leaving him standing there and chuckling.

What a peculiar girl. What a peculiar girl, indeed.