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He still had the power to stir her emotions.
But the emotion she felt most was anger – and that terrible grief.
Lord Sheringford had been quite right about him. He /was/ weak. She could not like anything he had said tonight about himself.
But he was still Crispin. She had loved him.
Ah, /how/ she had loved him.
She trudged up to bed though she did not believe she would be able to sleep.
After twelve dry years, she had been kissed twice today – by different men.
Both of whom wished to marry her.
Neither of whom was a particularly desirable mate.
But only one of them would admit it.
Mrs. Henry, Duncan's Aunt Agatha, had not sent him an invitation to her soiree, but she surely would have done, he reasoned, if he had been in London when she sent out the cards. He had always been a great favorite with her, perhaps because she had had six daughters of her own but no sons.
Her greeting was not particularly effusive, though, when he arrived in the middle of the evening with Margaret Huxtable on his arm. "Oh, goodness me," she said as soon as she saw him, looking more dismayed than delighted, "Duncan! How very – " She did not complete the thought, but raised her eyebrows before taking his offered hand in both her own and laying her cheek against his. "Well, never mind. My soiree is certain to be talked about tomorrow and perhaps for the next week or two, and no hostess could possibly ask for more, could she? Besides, you are my nephew." She turned to smile warmly at his companion. "Miss Huxtable," she said, "what a lovely shade of rose red your gown is. Of course, you have the coloring for it. And so you have taken on my scamp of a nephew, have you? I do commend your courage." "Thank you, ma'am," Miss Huxtable said. "I was delighted by my invitation to your soiree." She /had/ received an invitation, it seemed. And yet, Duncan thought, she had not been in London much longer than he, had she? Had his aunt really not wanted him here, then? It was a humbling thought.
But she was turning away to greet another group of new arrivals. "I suppose," he said, offering his arm to Miss Huxtable and covering her hand with his own when she set it on his sleeve, "we had better proceed to make the evening memorable for my aunt. All eyes appear to be upon us already, as you may have observed. One grows almost accustomed to it. Do you enjoy being notorious?" "Not at all," she said. "But I am not. Why should I be? I have merely accepted the escort of a gentleman to a soiree for which I received an invitation." Her chin was up, he noticed. There was a slight martial gleam in her eye. "A gentleman who is actively wooing you," he said, dipping his head closer to hers and looking directly into her eyes. "And I see two of my cousins over there. I really ought to go and make myself agreeable before Susan's eyes pop right out of her head." They crossed the room, and Duncan introduced Miss Huxtable to Susan Middleton and Andrea Henry, two of Aunt Agatha's daughters. "Oh, not /Miss Henry/ any longer, Duncan," Andrea protested. "I am Lady Bodsworth now. Did you not hear? I married Nathan two years ago." "Did you indeed?" he said. "Fortunate Nathan. But you did not invite me to the wedding? How unkind of you. I must have been off doing something else at the time." She bit her lip, her eyes dancing, and Susan laughed outright. He had always been as great a favorite with his girl cousins as he had with his aunt – a partiality he had always returned. They had been jolly girls, always up for a lark. "I ca
Duncan turned to look about him.
His aunt's home was admirably suited to a party of this nature, consisting as it did of a line of co
The doors of each room had been folded back tonight so that guests could move from one room to another as if they were all one.
The drawing room was already almost uncomfortably crowded with guests.
Someone was playing the pianoforte in the next room. "Shall we go and listen?" he suggested to Miss Huxtable, indicating the door into the music room. "Oh, I would not if I were you," Andrea said, but Miss Huxtable had already set a hand on his sleeve. "Oh, dear, this /is/ awkward." They passed through the first door to find a group of people standing about the pianoforte, which was being played with more than usual competence by a very young lady in pale pink. Merton was standing behind the bench, turning the pages of music for her. "Miss Weeding," Miss Huxtable explained. "She has real talent. She is also very modest. I am delighted that she has been persuaded to play tonight." They stood with everyone else to watch and listen, and attracted somewhat less attention than they had in the drawing room.
Except from Merton himself.
He spotted them after a minute or two and looked noticeably restless and uncomfortable until the music came to an end. He bent his head then to say something to Miss Weeding and came striding across the room toward his sister. "Meg," he said, "I have been waiting for you to arrive. I was afraid to come back home for fear I would pass you on the way and not realize it.
You must allow me to escort you home again without delay." He looked at Duncan for the first time, his expression tight and hostile. "You ought not to be here, Sheringford. I'll wager Mrs. Henry did not invite you." Duncan merely raised his eyebrows. "But she /did/ invite /me/, Stephen," Miss Huxtable said, "and so it is quite unexceptionable for me to be here, and Lord Sheringford too, I daresay. Mrs. Henry is his aunt." "/Turner/ is here," Stephen said, his voice low but urgent. "So are the Pe
Well, it was inevitable, Duncan supposed. They were in London for the Season, as was he, alas. They were bound to come face-to-face sooner or later. It had almost happened the evening before last, though the whole width of a theater had separated them, and Turner had made no move to force a confrontation. Instead he had run during the first intermission, which had seemed entirely in character. Tonight perhaps he would have no choice in the matter, unless Miss Huxtable wished to turn tail and run now before it was too late.
She was looking at him. "I suppose," she said, "that is what Mrs. Henry meant when she said her soiree would be talked about for some weeks to come. And what your cousins meant when they said you should not stay long or venture farther than the drawing room." "Will /you/ take her home, Sheringford, or shall I?" Stephen asked. "Do you /wish/ to leave, my lord?" Miss Huxtable asked, virtually ignoring her brother. She was looking closely at him.
He did actually. This was a very public place. And he was escorting the lady he hoped to marry, the lady who could rescue him from penury and the inability to give Toby the country home he had promised him after Laura's death. He was in company with dozens of people who thought the very worst of him and would spare him no sympathy whatsoever in any confrontation with Laura's husband – or with Caroline Pe
It really was not a pleasant thing to be hated. One might be blasГ© about it on the outside, but inside … Yes, he wished to leave. But there were certain moments in life that forever defined one as a person – in one's own estimation, anyway. And one's own self-esteem, when all was said and done, was of far more importance than the fickle esteem of one's peers. He would not turn away from this particular moment any more than he had turned away from the painful decision he had made five years ago.