His Grace, The Duke: Second Sons Book Two

Rosalie was swept to the drawing room on Piety’s arm and thrust into the middle of the boisterous house party. For several hours, the group played cards and charades. A young lady was always at the piano, plinking out a merry tune. She was forced to satisfy the curiosity of the other young ladies, answering repeated questions about her odd departure with James from the Michaelmas ball. While she kept the details brief, she couldn’t avoid the judgmental looks cast her way.

After tea, the Nash twins set Rosalie up in the corner with a sketchbook and insisted that she take their likenesses. The twins looked as beautiful as ever, their golden curls arranged in matching tight rows around their oval faces. They were identical down to the last freckle, their big brown eyes framed in long, dark lashes. Rosalie was grateful to be sat in the corner, away from all the prying eyes. She sketched the twins, the Swindon sisters, and Peanut, Piety’s spoiled lap dog.

Just as Rosalie prepared to take her leave, desperate for a few minutes of peace, Piety stood and clapped her hands. “Right, if we don’t all get ready, we’ll miss the start of the concert!”

That’s how Rosalie found herself dressed in one of her new evening gowns, white gloves pulled up to her elbows, the duchess’ pearls at her neck, wedged between Renley and Mariah Swindon at a public concert. Before her, a string quartet played the selected works of Joseph Haydn.

She hadn’t had a chance to speak to Burke or Renley since their return to the house, but she could tell from the way Renley leaned in with a furrowed brow that he knew something was wrong. A row behind them, Burke sat between Blanche and Lady Oswald. Rosalie could feel his eyes on her. Her skin felt so warm under his gaze that she was forced to fan herself with her concert program.

“Are you well?” Renley whispered.

“Perfectly,” she replied, stirring the air with a flick of her wrist.

In fact, nothing about this situation was perfect. Rosalie had sailed right into perilous waters. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but she felt Burke wasn’t the only one with his eyes on her. Each time she glanced around at the crowd of concert goers, she made eye contact with someone. More than once a lady turned to her neighbor, raising her feathered fan, and whispered some remark that had them both looking her way. It was torture. She fought the urge to squirm in her seat.

And James was being no help at all, keeping himself as far from her as possible. In fact, she wasn’t even sure if he was still in the concert hall. This apparently was his way of disproving any rumors swirling about them.

She took a steadying breath, grateful that Renley at least was at her side. He filled the space next to her, looking so dashing in his officer’s uniform. The navy blue of his coat brought out the blue in his eyes, and the white contrasted with his tanned face. She dared to glance up, offering him a smile. He returned it, shifting his arm so that it might brush ever so gently against hers. The contact made her sigh. It was the best they could manage for now.

After an hour of music, the quartet took a break, and the concert goers were treated to punch in the ornate entry hall. It was a beautiful space, with a wall of mirrors on one side that cast dancing candlelight all around. Peals of laughter and overlapping voices created a hazy hum that was punctuated by the clinking of glasses.

She took Renley’s arm as he escorted her towards the punch table.

When he was sure no one could hear them, he leaned in. “How are you managing?”

“They scorn me with such delight,” she replied, noting how several sets of eyes watched them together.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Just give it a week. It will soon blow over.”

“Not soon enough,” she murmured.

“Renley?” An older gentleman in a navy uniform approached. “Good God, I knew it was you. Tom Renley back in England? How the devil are you, sir?”

Renley let out a barking laugh. “West Price, you old sea dog! You’ve gone greyer than the cliffs of Dover!” He stepped away from her to shake the sailor’s hand. The men were soon lost in a conversation full of nautical terms and sweeping hand gestures.

Without Renley on her arm, Rosalie felt naked, but she resolved to get them both a glass of punch. It didn’t escape her notice how each time she took a step, the crowd seemed to move away, unwilling to acknowledge her presence. How was it possible to feel so alone in such a crowded room?

“Miss Harrow…what a surprise to see you here,” came a sweet voice to her left.

She turned to see Marianne Young standing along the wall of mirrors. The lady was as beautiful as ever, with her dark curls and icy blue eyes. She was flanked to either side by a pair of equally impressive ladies adorned in their jewels, with plumes of feathers in their powdered curls.

Rosalie worked quickly to put a society-approved smile on her face and dipped into a curtsy. Rank is rank, after all. “Good evening, Mrs. Young. I trust you are well?”

“Perfectly well,” she replied. “Oh, but I hope you have recovered, dear.”

Rosalie held her smile on her face. “Recovered?”

“Yes, from your frightful ordeal. The ton has been quite ravenous over it.” Marianne glanced to either side to simper at her friends. “Rushed to London in the dead of night in the arms of the Viscount Finchley. Was it medical, dear? A death in the family perhaps? For I can’t imagine it was as scandalous as the gossip columns claim.”

Rosalie’s breath caught in her throat. “Gossip columns?”

“Oh dear, you didn’t know?” Marianne laughed, patting her shoulder like a child. “It’s all over the papers, Miss Harrow. There was that column in The Morning Chronicle,” she said to her friend.

“I read it in Lady Whisper,” her friend replied with a haughty sniff.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re featured in The Times itself by the end of the week,” Marianne added. “You sure know how to make an entrance into high society. I only fear that your entrance might also mark your exit.”

Rosalie was going to be sick. Whispers and rumors were one thing…but her trip to London had been printed in the papers? Multiple papers? Frustration coiled in her gut. Frustration at herself, which was wholly deserved. But she was frustrated with James too. He had to know. Every morning she watched him at the breakfast table unfurl and read his stack of papers. He knew and said nothing, she was sure of it.

Did Renley know too? Did Burke? Had they all been keeping it from her for days?

“The truth is hardly worth noting,” she said, doing her best to hold her head high.

“No one cares about truth in this town,” Marianne replied with a flick of her fan. “All we want is a good story.”

“Either way, I shall leave the true story with you,” Rosalie countered. “The viscount had urgent business in town to prepare for His Grace’s wedding. They mean to marry within the month. Surely you must have heard?”

“Oh yes…we know. The soon-to-be Piety Corbin, Duchess of Norland,” Marianne replied. “Oh, how the climbers will climb,” she added under her breath, taking a sip of her bubbly pink punch.

The other ladies snorted with derision.

“Speaking of social climbers, I hear I am to congratulate you on your official position at Corbin House,” Marianne went on. “You are the new governess now, yes? Oh, wait…that makes no sense, for there are no children in the house.” She looked to her friends in mock confusion. “I must be misremembering what Tom told me. Tell us Miss Harrow, what is your role there?”

Rosalie let out a slow exhale, saying nothing as the other ladies sneered. She was too busy focusing on the way Marianne’s mouth had shaped the word ‘Tom.’

“Miss Nash will have to watch out for you,” Marianne goaded, knowing she’d hit her target. “I hear the Duke of Norland suffers from a most pernicious case of the wandering eye. With such a treat before him, however will he look away?”

“I’d hate to be Miss Nash,” huffed the lady on the left. “Forced to compete for attention in my own home? It is not to be borne.”

“Some men just prefer dross to gold,” Marianne replied, taking another sip of her punch.

“Hmm, too true, Mari,” cooed the lady on the right. “And some people need to be reminded of their proper sphere.”

Rosalie could feel her heartbeat in her ears. It mixed with the hum of conversation around the room. Too much noise. Too many people. Too…everything. She blinked. Were her eyes wet? Was she about to cry in front of these women?

Never. Pull yourself together.

Trying her best to recover her dignity, she lifted her chin and smiled. “I must go find Lieutenant Renley before the concert resumes. He’ll no doubt be wondering where I am.” She dipped into a little curtsy. “Excuse me—”

Marianne stepped forward, clutching Rosalie’s gloved wrist. “No, he isn’t,” she hissed in her ear. “He isn’t wondering that at all. Because Tom doesn’t think of you. He will tire of you, and he will cast you aside as just another gossip column skivvy.”

She raised her free hand, brushing it along Rosalie’s jaw. This was the second time this woman had dared to touch Rosalie in such a familiar way. Rosalie stiffened, feeling the satin of the glove against her skin like it was sandpaper.

“Such a pretty little rose,” Marianne murmured. “So soon to wilt.”

“Take your hand off me,” Rosalie said, enunciating each word.

“Gladly.” Marianne dropped her hand away.

Without waiting another second, Rosalie slipped between the crowd, moving as far from Marianne Young as possible. She left the hall, following a sign for the ladies’ dressing room. Tugging open the door, she stepped inside, closing it with a snap. Thank heavens, the room was empty.

Sagging against the door, she let out a shaky sob, putting her gloved hand over her mouth. She leaned against it for a minute, trying to control her breathing. Then she stumbled forward, reaching for the drink cart like it was a lifeline. She gripped it with both hands, pouring herself a glass of tepid lemon rosemary water.

Before she could raise the glass to her lips, a deep voice spoke behind her.

“Oh Cabbage…that was embarrassing.”