A Duke’s Overlooked Spinster (The Courting Season #1)

Chapter 10

“Robert, look there! Is that not most charming?”

Mama’s voice was haughtily refined where she stood beside him in the ballroom at Averhill Manor. Robert turned to look at the painting she was looking at, his eyes hurting a little at the intense light in the ballroom. The room was lit with over a hundred candles, their light multiplied by the crystals and mirrors which were draped on the chandeliers and adorning the walls, respectively. The effect was blinding, and the loudness of the noise hurt his ears.

“Very charming,” Robert replied. The painting was a view from near the town of Bath, looking in the direction of Averhill manor. He wished for a moment that Miss Brooke was there—he would have valued her opinion on the artwork.

“Ah! There is Lady Bardwell. I must go over to greet her.”

“Quite so,” Robert murmured. His mother glided off across the ballroom, her gray-blue gown elegant and stylish, becoming her well and matching her gracefully-arranged white hair. Robert stood where he was, relieved that his mother had not insisted that he accompany her. He drew a deep breath, shutting his eyes for a second. He always found balls and parties tiring.

The noise of talk and laughter crashed in on him like a wave and he leaned back against the wall, steadying himself. He had avoided balls and parties for years and he had not realized just how overwhelming it would all be when he attended one. His shirt felt scratchy, though it was fine linen, and he fiddled with the cuff, a habit he thought he had shaken when he was at Cambridge.

He looked down at his outfit. The black tailcoat that he wore had the fashionable cut, cutaway in front and long at the back. He wore black trousers too—his mother might say it was irregular to wear mourning garb after five years, but she could not stop him. She, after all, still wore the grays and navy-blues of half-mourning, and Papa had been gone for much longer.

He stood straighter as he spotted his mother and Lady Bardwell moving across the ballroom. He thought that they were heading towards him, but they were moving towards the refreshments table and his spine slumped in relief. The soft sound of laughter sounded from near the door and he looked over, heart thumping.

Where is Miss Brooke? I hope she will join us this night, he thought wonderingly. She had a habit of avoiding large gatherings, not having attended the tea and avoiding most of the people during the dinner. His heart ached with the thought that she might have decided to remain in her chambers instead of joining the guests at the ball. The ball would be tedious at best if she was not there, he thought, then flushed.

Guilt washed over him as a tingle of excitement moved down his spine at the thought of seeing her.

As much as Edward had suggested that Elizabeth would not mind his interest in Miss Brooke, Robert could not help feeling guilty whenever he thought about her. It felt wrong to feel such excitement, to keep waiting for Miss Brooke to appear. And yet, he reminded himself, Elizabeth would not want him to be sad, to be in perpetual mourning. She hated sad occasions and she always tried to lighten the mood. She would, he felt sure, be glad to see him happy.

“Robert! Are you enjoying the evening thus far?” Victoria asked him. Robert shrugged.

“It is a little too early to say yet,” he told her, grinning wryly. Victoria was dressed in a dark blue ballgown, the silken fabric covered with a layer of dark gauze. Her black hair was arranged in a bun and decorated with dark blue velvet in a thick hairband. She beamed dazzlingly; her smile bright on her long oval face.

“I suppose that is true. James and I are at the refreshments table if you care to join us?” she asked.

Robert lifted a brow. “I think I prefer to wait here a moment, sister,” he said carefully. She grinned.

“When the table is safe, I think you mean,” she jested. She had guessed that he was avoiding Lady Bardwell and her family.

“Mm.”

Victoria smiled; her black eyes sparkling. They were identical to their father’s eyes and Robert’s heart ached. He wished that Papa was there to guide him.

They stood silently for a moment, and Robert’s gaze wandered to the stairs. Lord and Lady Averhill were standing there, greeting their guests as they drifted down to the ballroom, and every time someone came in, his gaze strayed to the doors. He longed to see Miss Brooke. Just the thought made his heart race, and his breath catch in his throat.

“You must go to the baths while you are here,” Victoria informed him as they stood silently, watching the doorway. “The water is most restorative,” James said. “I plan to go tomorrow; discreetly, of course,” she added with a grin.

“Quite so, sister.”

They both chuckled.

“Robert! Good evening,” James greeted him informally, shaking his hand.

“Good evening,” Robert replied, taking the proffered hand and giving it a firm shake. He listened as James and his sister discussed something; his own eyes fixed on the stairs.

As he watched, a woman appeared there. He had not seen the door open, but it must have slid open a crack, because Miss Brooke appeared at the top of the stairs. He stared at her, drawing a sharp breath in. She was clad in a long gown of pale blue muslin, the overskirt made from gauze and filmy, just a shade lighter than her gray-blue eyes. Her thick chestnut hair was drawn back in a chignon, a blue ribbon its only adornment. She seemed to float down the stairs, her gaze slightly unfocused, and he stared up at her. Her willowy form moved down the stairs, flowing like water. He frowned at the expression on her face, his heart skipping as she came closer, and he could better see what she thought. Her face was tense, her eyes round and huge-seeming against her pale skin, her lips in a small moue that could have indicated fright.

She was walking at a slow, measured pace, but in her focused gaze, he could see that she was straining not to run. He had been afraid, as well, walking into the crowded, loud space, so he could only imagine how much worse it was for her. She seemed to have been out of society for at least as long as he was himself. He frowned, making a note to try and find out about why. She did not wear black, and so he thought she was not in mourning, but perhaps she had been so. Edward—while he said he did not know her very well—was, surely, the person to inquire.

Miss Brooke was at the bottom of the stairs. She gazed about, seeming a little stunned, and Robert stepped forward, aching to go to her. Just as he crossed the room, however, a voice called him from behind.

“Robert! Son. Do come over here. Lady Bardwell and Marina have a question for you.”

“Oh?” Robert’s heart twisted. He tried to smile, but it was challenging, since he ached with the longing to go and talk to Miss Brooke and they had just distracted him. “What is it?” he inquired, doing his best to sound mild.

“They were discussing the best silk to make a wall-hanging, and, since you know a little about the industry, I thought you might have something to say in the matter.”

“Mm?” Robert frowned.

“The silk industry! Are you not invested in the trade?” his mother said, a little chidingly. He inclined his head.

“I am, Mother. But I cannot pretend much expertise on the subject. Nevertheless, I will try,” he agreed, seeing her frustration grow. He was sure she knew as well as he did that, he had very little to say—it was merely her way of involving him in conversation with the Bardwell family when she knew he would rather avoid it. He was surprised that she had the tact to approach the matter indirectly and he followed her across to the table, where Lady Bardwell and her daughter stood.

“Your Grace!” Lady Bardwell greeted him. “Why! An honour to see you.” She dropped a slight bob. As a countess, she was almost of equal rank to himself, and a mere bob was all that was needed, rather than a full curtsey. Lady Marina did likewise, a slightly deeper bob. She raised her eyes to his face.

“An honour, Lady Marina. Lady Bardwell.” He bowed, greeting them both.

“Marina is of the opinion that French heavy-weave silk would be the best for a hanging,” Lady Bardwell told Robert. “I take it your opinion would be likewise? I understand that you are invested in the trade,” she added quickly.

“Yes. I am certain Lady Marina must be correct,” he said gallantly. Lady Bardwell chuckled.

“Spoken like a true gentleman! How delightful. Not so, Marina, my dear?” She added, turning to Marina. Marina blushed and Robert felt a little sorry for her. She might be no more comfortable with their parents’ machinations than he was.

“Quite so, Mama,” she murmured. She raised her eyes to Robert’s face.

Robert gave her a polite nod, his throat tightening, his jaw clenching. He felt annoyed with his mother, and hers, for forcing the conversation on them both. He found it hard to converse with either Lady Marina or Lady Bardwell—he could not understand their motives and their views. Sometimes, Lady Marina almost seemed indifferent to him, whereas at other times, she hung on his every word—it confused him terribly.

“Ah! Listen! A fine waltz!” His mother declared, gazing up at Robert expectantly. His jaw clenched again, annoyance stabbing into him.

“May I have the honour of this dance?” He asked Lady Marina woodenly.

“Of course, Your Grace!” Lady Marina beamed up at him, her lovely blue eyes tilting up at the corners when she smiled prettily at him.

Robert took her hand and led her to the dance floor, filled with resignation. He was at a ball and his mother insisted and so he had to dance with her. He promised himself that it would be just this one dance; that he would not let his mother persuade him into more. His eyes drifted across the room, gazing over the people, looking for a head of chestnut locks and a blue gown. He did not spot it.

“Is it not a fine ballroom?” Lady Marina asked him, gazing up at him as they moved towards the dance floor.

“Very fine,” Robert replied. He gazed down at her, wishing that he could feel something. He felt guilty that he could not. She seemed harmless enough—pretty, accomplished and well-mannered. There was nothing to dislike, and yet he could not warm to her no matter how he tried to do so.

“The musicians play a fine waltz,” she commented as they stepped onto the floor.

“They do,” Robert agreed. He rested his hand lightly on her shoulder-blade, taking her other hand in his own. Her white silk glove was cool against his palm, her small hand fitting neatly into his. Again, he wondered why he felt nothing, where any other gentleman would have felt his pulse racing with fearful admiration as he gazed into those beautiful eyes.

“How grand! I do enjoy a waltz,” she murmured as they stepped onto the dance floor. Robert tensed, feeling her soft muslin skirt swish against his legs. She was wearing a white muslin gown, the neckline low, the skirt gauzy and soft, pearls decorating her lovely reddish-blonde curls. Dark lashes rested on her cheeks when she looked modestly down and he wished again to be able to feel something beyond dutiful.

They stepped neatly about the floor, whirling close as they turned the corner. The waltz was dubbed scandalous, since it required that the two dancers pressed close to one another as they danced. It had become wildly fashionable early in his courtship of Elizabeth, and she had learned it with some amusement. They had never really taken it seriously, laughing together as they bumped into one another. He bit his lip, the memories tightening his throat.

Lady Marina was stepping gracefully about the room, the steps as fine and even as if they were performed by some mechanical device. She was an excellent dancer, coldly excellent. He did his best to keep up with her, his cheeks flushing in shame as he realized that he had forgotten how to dance in the last five years. He could sense her disapproval as she gazed up at him, her blue eyes a little frosty.

“The music is slower,” she told him a little tightly as they stepped back and he gritted his teeth, trying to slow. The waltz was, indeed, slow, and he realized that it meant it was nearing a conclusion. He felt relieved as he bowed and Lady Marina curtseyed to the conclusion of the waltz. The couples around them clapped, complimenting each other on their dancing abilities. He cleared his throat.

“Thank you for the waltz, Lady Marina,” he told her politely. “I appreciate your skill.”

“Thank you for the waltz, Your Grace,” she said tightly, as though she was still more than a little angry with him for miss-stepping and almost standing on her foot.

Robert inclined his head, sighing inwardly. She was a little petulant, but he reminded himself, she was nineteen years old. She had made her debut into society and she probably felt annoyed with him for not being able to waltz when she could do so with a high level of talent. He could not recall being so young, even when he had been her age.

“Thank you,” he repeated and looked around, trying to think of an excuse to allow himself some respite. “I think I will take some air. It is quite noisy in here,” he told her, gesturing to where the back doors had been opened to allow the cool night air to drift in.

“Of course, Your Grace. I will remain here. It is cold outdoors without my shawl.” Her gaze held his and he was not sure if she was vexed with him for going outdoors, or if she might be pleased to have him vacate the room.

He bowed low and walked across the ballroom, excusing himself as he almost stepped into people and narrowly avoided trestles and low chairs.

He reached the doors and drew a breath, half-expecting that the terrace would have become as crowded as the ballroom during the dance. But, as he stepped out, relief filled him and he exhaled deeply.

Nobody else had yet ventured out, and the terrace stretched out, pale gray and silent under the moonlight, before him. The surface was tiled with flagstones that were a little damp and caught the starlight here and there. There was a tree growing close to the edge and the leaves whispered in the cool night air. Robert crossed from the door to the railing and leaned heavily on the wrought iron, feeling the cold through his shirtsleeves.

The scent of damp earth and wet leaves drifted up from the garden, cold and invigorating. He drew in a deep breath, the smell refreshing him like a glass of cool water. He could hear muted conversation drifting from the ballroom, but the sound was dampened by the distance and the rustling of the breeze and he felt himself relax for the first time all night.

As he leaned there, he heard something. It sounded like the rustling leaves, but then he realized it was footsteps and he turned and drew in a breath of surprise.

Paused in the doorway, her head turned slightly to the side as if she gazed round to check for intrusion, her soft profile caught by the candlelight and her hair glowing in the backlighting of the doorway, was Miss Brooke.