A
prim stuck-up
. Apparently this was the gentlemen’s assessment of her, along with the other usual descriptors, “strange” and “odd.” At least there was no gossip of her hiding under desks in libraries, even though three days had passed since her encounter with the Duke of Courtland. Something so horrifically embarrassing could only happen to her. She wondered why he did not tell tales about their meeting when he could so easily amuse his friends.
As for her friends’ staunch intentions to snub His Grace—every topic of conversation now revolved around him.
The duke did not appear anything like the villain they’d expected. His teeth were white and straight and his eyes intelligent, set off by dark eyebrows. His face was neither broad nor narrow, but just right, with a masculine nose and fine, well-shaped lips. His chin was strong without seeming pointy or prominent. Taken together, the duke was indeed dangerously handsome, though not in a classical sense. It was more that when one looked at the Duke of Courtland, one wished to keep looking.
But Harmony dared not. The duke had noticed her at dinner the very first night, his eyes glinting in wary recognition. His arch expression left no doubt he remembered how they’d met. Since then, she had kept her gaze on her lap or the carpet, leaving her friends to comment upon his every expression and movement from the corner where they spied on him.
“He is so tall,” Viola said breathlessly. “Each time I see him I am shocked by his height.”
Mirabel fingered her fan. “Look how he stares about at everyone without smiling. He is too severe.”
“His hair is disordered,” said another girl.
“I thought he would look older,” said Juliette. “He is old, is he not?”
“He does not dance with anyone,” sniffed Sybil. “How rude. He probably doesn’t know how.”
They fell silent, peeking at him from behind their fans. Harmony allowed herself a long look too, now that he was occupied talking to his friends. The duke was in evening black with a neatly tied cravat and elegant jewelry glittering at his neck and hands. Nothing too ostentatious. No, the ostentatious thing was the air of power and hauteur he wore as easily as his fine clothes. His expression was carefully neutral, yes, almost severe. His handsome features were framed by dark hair worn slightly longer than was the fashion. He did not smile, not even once, in the course of his conversations.
“I believe he can dance very well.” Mirabel’s voice sounded slow, almost predatory. She looked over her shoulder at Harmony. “You are the one who was willing to dance with him. Go stand near him and see if he’ll ask you.”
The girls tittered. Harmony set her chin. “I never said I was willing. I dislike dancing.”
Sybil’s lips curled. “I can’t imagine why. Come, ladies, let us rejoin the company of our young gentlemen. As for the Duke of Courtland, he may stand and glower all he likes but he shall not impress me.”
Harmony stayed behind, as they doubtless intended her to. The girls massed in the center of the drawing room, arranging themselves with their favored beaux for the next set as an old matron plinked doggedly at the piano. Harmony shouldn’t be jealous that her friends had such fun, that they enjoyed flirtation and the attentions of their suitors. She wished she wasn’t jealous, but in quiet, weak moments, she desperately wanted to be like them. She wanted gentlemen to shoulder each other out of the way for her attention, to hang on her every word, however vapid those words would have to be. She wished a gentleman, just one gentleman, would notice her.
But then she remembered that she didn’t like to be vapid, and she didn’t wish her entire life to revolve around the attention of men.
There was only one man among the guests who interested her anyway, and that was the mysterious, worse-than-a-rake duke. What were his uncomfortable habits? How many mistresses did he have and what awful things did he do to them, that Lady Sybil’s papa must strike the duke from his list of acceptable candidates for her hand? The duke did not seem at all perverse in his manners. In fact, he had been quite civil to her when she’d surprised him under Lord Darlington’s desk.
Harmony watched as the wealthy peer drifted into the card room and out again, then went to the punch bowl for a drink. His hair was slightly unconventional, perhaps due to a mild case of curls. One dubious aspect of an otherwise very sedate person. Harmony dropped her gaze from his hair and stared at his gloved hands. Even across the room she could tell the duke’s gloves were impeccably fitted, of utmost quality. Everything about him screamed quality and propriety, and nothing uncomfortable at all. She rubbed her eyebrows and forced herself to stop staring. She was no better than her friends, speculating endlessly about him.
“Miss Barrett. Must you hide your beauty back here in this corner? It is not fair.” The booming voice of elderly Lord Monmouth startled her, along with the noisy creaking of his stays. Behind him, her brother gave her an urgent look. “Might I have the next dance, madam?” the old earl asked.
Harmony schooled her face to careful blankness even though she was quailing inside. Lord Monmouth was a kind man but his teeth were decaying and his figure was very…round. She forgot all about the sleek dark duke as she stared in horror at the earl’s extended arm.
“Lord Monmouth, forgive me, but I’m not feeling my best at the moment. I’m really too…”
Her brother caught her eye and glared a threat at her.
“I’m really too…bloated from dinner to…dance yet…” she finished weakly, eyeing Lord Monmouth’s rotund belly straining above his breeches.
“I am sorry to hear it,” Lord Monmouth grunted, his expression hardening. “I pray you feel better soon. Good evening to you.” Without further ado, he stalked past her brother and disappeared into the adjoining salon to join the other gentlemen at cards.
“Harmony!” Her brother vibrated with frustration. “Lord Monmouth is a widower. A
rich
widower, you twit. What of finding a match?”
“You cannot think I’d wish to marry that ancient gentleman?”
“What do your wishes have to do with anything?” Stephen pulled her up, wrenching her arm in the process. “I had to play nice with the man for nearly an hour, regaling him with tales of how sweet and misunderstood you are only to get him to come over here. And you—” He pinched her elbow painfully. “You tell him you are too bloated to dance with him? I am sure he’s even now sharing that entertaining tidbit with his card partners, and they are all having a great laugh at your expense.”
“Let go of me.” If they pulled at each other any harder, they would draw attention to themselves. “Release me,” she hissed. “You are hurting me.”
“It’s what you deserve. And if you are feeling so
bloated
, you can very well retire to your room for the evening. It embarrasses me, the way you skulk about. You won’t be happy until we’re both utter laughingstocks.”
He grasped her arm and forced her forward so she had no choice but to trip across the room under his simmering control. They were nearly to the door when a sudden hush descended on the company. The Duke of Courtland stepped right in front of them, his face a polite but rigid mask. He nodded to her brother and then waited for Harmony to acknowledge him—which she did with a shocked stare. He bowed slightly.
“Madam, I am sorry to have not made your acquaintance before now.”
*** *** ***
Court wondered what had come over him.
Well, any polite guest owed it to the hostess to participate at least marginally in the entertainments. Or become one, if circumstances called for it. He wasn’t about to let Barrett drag off his sister before the whole group. The unfortunate young miss gawked at him. An offer of her hand would have been the appropriate way to proceed, but her brother still had her by the arm. Court glared at him so fiercely he released her and took a step back.
“Your Grace, I am d—deeply honored to introduce my sister, Miss Harmony Barrett.”
Court nearly lost his composure over her name. Harmony? “Chaos” would have been more fitting. “Miss Barrett,” he said, taking her now-proffered hand and raising it to his lips. “The honor is mine. Would you care to dance the next set?” He looked back at the massing couples, all of whom were staring at them. “It begins shortly.”
Her pale blue eyes widened as her fingertips fluttered in his grasp. “Dance it…with you?”
He looked around. “Who else?”
She closed and opened her mouth again. “I— I—”
If she refused him it would be hilarious. It would be talked about in drawing rooms and ballrooms for years. He held her gaze, willing her to do as she wished, to refuse him if she wanted to. Blue, so very blue. Her eyes were a pale, clear blue and her features so delicately pretty.
“If you wish, Your Grace,” she finally managed, nodding her head and bobbing an awkward curtsy. He held her hand tighter and led her to the center of the room as her gaping brother looked on.
The set began just as they arrived, as if the other dancers had been waiting for them. Miss Barrett grimaced, flubbing very badly the first pair of turns. “I’m afraid I don’t dance well,” she said.
“You dance wonderfully.” He gave her a nudge through the next step so she didn’t turn the wrong way. She shot him a harried look that rather amused him. He caught a glimpse of his mother seated on the periphery with Mrs. Lyndon, all color drained from her face.
He grinned at Miss Barrett simply to goad his mother as they moved through the formations of the country dance. Over, under, turn left, turn right. He found dancing extremely boring, but partnering Miss Barrett livened up the proceedings. There were always stray arms to grab and adjustments in balance to keep him alert. His partner was grim-faced and silent, not once engaging him in a conversation about Mongol hordes, or Viking or Pictish hordes, or any other type of horde. For his part, he murmured encouragements when he wasn’t managing her unruly arms and dodging the trods of her feet.
In addition to her lack of natural coordination, they were confounded by a marked difference in size. Until now he’d only seen her under a desk, or across the room where perspective was harder to judge. He was tall like his father and used to peering down at women, but Miss Barrett was shorter than most. Her chin barely reached the height of his chest and her hands were like little hummingbirds in his oversized grasp. She must find his hands monstrous; she eyed them frequently while they danced. At one point she turned the wrong way and collided with him. He righted her and she stopped short in the middle of a promenade.
“I am the very worst dancer,” she said.
“Nonsense. You move with rare eloquence.” She rejected this lie with a thunderous frown. “Perhaps we should take some refreshments instead,” he suggested.
Miss Barrett agreed emphatically with that idea. He had the feeling she would have fled the drawing room if he hadn’t tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. He led her to the punch bowl, nodding in response to Lady Darlington’s smile, and got Miss Barrett a glass of punch she appeared too overwrought to consume. People pretended not to watch them but they watched nonetheless, and Miss Barrett clearly yearned for escape. He might have let her go at that point with a bow and a polite “good evening.” He wondered why on earth he did not.
Instead he asked, “How are you enjoying your books?”
A flush bloomed on her cheeks. “I— Well—about that, Your Grace…thank you for not gossiping.”
“I abhor gossip.”
“I do, too.” Her pleased look warmed him. “To answer your question, as a student of history I found the books fascinating.”
“A student of history? I am glad to hear it. You’ve finished them already?”
“Yesterday,” she admitted.
“
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, that one small head could carry all she knew
,” he quoted in a fit of whimsy.
Miss Barrett looked alarmed. “I am not that intelligent.”
It was a lie every bit as false as his lie about her dancing. She clamped her mouth shut, as if some monologue on the origins and habits of Mongol hordes might otherwise escape her. She was, as his mother had warned, woefully strange in manners, which disquieted and fascinated him at the same time. He took her cup and placed it on a nearby table.
“Miss Barrett, did you know our hosts own several paintings of historical interest? May I escort you to see them?”
She stared up at him. He felt a twitch at his lips, a smile not called up from some sense of politeness or propriety, but a true smile. She smiled back, then her face clouded.
“Is it entirely proper?”
“To view your hosts’ paintings? Of course. They are just down the hall outside this room.”
“Then yes, please. I would love to see them.”
He offered his arm and she took it, holding herself stiffly beside him. She was worried about propriety, was she? His days of seducing young women in secluded galleries were long over, although he did imagine for a moment what it might be like to pull Miss Barrett into a dark corner and surprise her with a kiss. Would she react with a slap? A swoon? Not Miss Barrett of the Mongol hordes. She would more likely glower at him until he stopped.
He looked down and patted her gloved hand, trying to communicate her safety in his care. They left the brightly lit drawing room and entered the wide hallway. It was darker there, but adequately illuminated with lamps. The flickering light reflected off her disarranged hair. His fingers ached to set a couple of errant curls to rights, but it was not something a gentleman would do with any lady other than his wife or mistress.
“Here, Miss Barrett,” he said, stopping at the first one. “A portrait depicting St. Joan of Arc.”
She regarded the painting critically. “It is not how I would imagine her.”
“Oh?” He had viewed this rendition of
Jeanne d’Arc
before and found her stark, severe expression moving. “She was not like an English lady,” he explained. “She would not have a silk gown and her hair done up in curls. She lived long ago in France.”
“It’s not that I think she should look like the ladies back in the drawing room,” sniffed Miss Barrett. “I am not an idiot.”