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

Chapter 18

Sarah stood on the stairs, her heart swirling with a mix of nerves and excitement, her breath tight in her throat. The noise in the ballroom rose and fell around her, the glow of the candles in the chandeliers hurting her eyes. She rested her hand for a moment on the lilac silk skirt of her ballgown, heart thudding in her chest. For the first time since she was invited by her cousin to stay, the thought of mingling with people felt tolerable.

It was because of the duke; she thought with a smile. The way that he had looked at her in the doorway of the gallery had filled her with wonder and more than a little confusion. She had never seen such tenderness, such warmth, in anyone’s gaze, never mind directed at her. Her father had made her feel, sometimes, as though her isolation from society was her own fault, as though not having succeeded at her first season should condemn her to a life of rattling around his house, fit only to oversee the staff. The duke’s gaze spoke otherwise and part of her could not understand it.

She took another deep breath, trying to calm herself, then walked down the steps into the ballroom.

“Sarah! My dear cousin. You look truly lovely,” Caroline greeted her. “I have never seen you in lilac! It becomes you so well.”

Sarah smiled shyly. She had studied her reflection in the looking glass before venturing down, and she had to admit that the effect was surprisingly striking. Her blue-gray eyes were enhanced by the pale lilac dress and she had to admit that it was a color that suited her extremely well.

“Thank you, cousin,” she murmured self-consciously. “And you look beautiful in blue.” That was completely true—the rich blue that Caroline wore accented her striking reddish curls and complimented her hazel eyes.

“Thank you, my dear. And I must say, Edward is rather fetching in gray,” Caroline added with a grin at Edward, who stood beside her, his thin face wreathed with a poorly-suppressed grin upon hearing the compliment.

“Thank you, sweetling,” Edward managed to say before he went red with shyness. Sarah smiled at them both and looked away, wanting to relieve Edward from any awkwardness.

She drifted across the ballroom. Her gaze moved from one side to the other, looking for the duke, though she could barely admit it even to herself. She recalled with a blush how striking he had looked at the last assembly he attended. His long, slender visage framed by a cravat and his thick, dark blonde locks, while the blue coat he wore accentuated his azure eyes. She could not wait to see him.

“Ah! Miss Brooke! What a lovely dress! You must tell me who your seamstress is. Is she in London?” Lady Egerton asked. Sarah smiled at her, the compliment bringing a glow of warmth to her heart.

“Thank you, my lady,” she said fondly. “This dress was, indeed, made by a seamstress in London. Though, judging by your gown, you know an even better seamstress,” she added teasingly. Lady Egerton was wearing a dark burgundy gown perfectly tailored to her more curvaceous silhouette. She looked lovely, her thick black hair arranged in a chignon and decorated with a dark ribbon.

“Thank you,” Lady Egerton said with a smile. “I confess that I don’t even remember where I bought this one. James might remember—he had to settle the account.” She grinned at James, who was chatting away to Charles, the duke’s brother.

“What, dear?” he asked, turning around to find Lady Egerton and Sarah staring at him.

“Nothing, my dear,” Lady Egerton said with a grin.

Sarah smiled at both of them and drifted on across the ballroom. Charles, she thought with a fond grin, looked like his brother—he had a long, angular face and the same blonde hair, though most of his face was much more like Lady Egerton. The long, slim nose they all had in common, but Charles and Lady Egerton both had the same soft jawline, and their eyes were more almond in shape.

The duke is by far the most handsome of the three, she thought, her face heating with the thought. She cast her eyes around the room, still trying to spot him. She strained her eyes, studying the guests without wanting to stare. Men in tailcoats and high-collared shirts, their legs clad in knee-breeches, stood conversing with ladies in long gowns with high waists and puff sleeves, the fabrics of their gowns every single shade that Sarah could imagine from white to deep blue.

Some ladies had turban headdresses married women sometimes covered their hair modestly, though it was not strictly expected—while most wore their hair styled in ringlets or chignons. Sarah reached up and tucked a lock of hair back behind her ear and into the chignon that Abigail had styled for her. She wore no adornments in her own hair except for a silver clasp to hold the chignon in place.

More guests had arrived and the noise in the ballroom increased, the sound of talk and laughter swelling around her like a wave. Sarah glanced across to the door where the guests entered. It was open, but there was no sign of anyone entering. The duke was not there yet.

He will soon be here, she thought calmly. He had not mentioned that he would not attend—Caroline would certainly know.

She smiled and chatted to some of the friendlier guests and drifted across the room towards the back doors. The room was hot, with so many people pressed so close. Her gown had puff sleeves that ended in the middle of her upper arm, the neck a low-cut square neckline, but she still felt overly warm. She passed by the refreshments table, and the tall glasses of lemonade drew her eye. Her mouth felt parched just thinking about a cool beverage. She reached for one, accepting a glass from the footman standing behind the table.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Of course, my lady,” he replied, seeming shy. Sarah smiled at him again, frowning to herself at the dazzling grin she received in return, and stepped back to allow the people behind her to make their choice. The footman’s friendly response still confused her.

Maybe I really am beautiful, she thought. It was a possibility that had genuinely never occurred to her before. She could see that she looked striking in some colors—especially the lilac gown—but actual beauty? It was a quality she had never thought that she might be graced with.

She was still considering the possibility, stepping back from the refreshments table, when she almost bumped into two women standing a few inches away. They both had their backs to her—apparently looking out of the ballroom window onto the balcony—and Sarah let out a quiet sigh of relief that they had not seen her, since she recognized them as the duchess—the duke’s mother—and her friend, Lady Bardwell. The two where conversing in hushed tones, and, despite her dislike of eavesdroppers, Sarah could not help but feel curious about what they had to say.

“I tell you, Marcia,” the duchess was saying in a low, firm voice, “it will not do. I will not let it be so.”

“It’s a disgrace,” Lady Bardwell replied, her tone a little louder and more indignant.

Sarah frowned, listening in with real interest and confusion. It was hard to decide what they might be talking about.

“I will not let my son make a fool of himself with that wretched girl. She is a nobody. A baron’s daughter she might be, but whoever heard of Baron Wakeford? No-one!” The duchess sounded harsh. Sarah tensed, her stomach twisting—it was her they were talking of.

“She is nobody. And where was she for so long? Nobody in society has ever heard of her—which is strange in itself, making me think there’s some scandal there.”

“I’ll be honest,” the duchess said. “She’s no debutante. And how could she ever be a duchess? She does not even seem to know proper comportment!” She sounded shocked.

“Racing around with children and stray animals like a hoyden! It’s shocking,” Lady Bardwell agreed.

“No style, no etiquette, no standing in society,” the duchess summed up.

Sarah blinked, her heart aching. Tears gathered in her eyes, threatening to fall. She turned abruptly, hurrying away lest the two women turn around. She did not want them to see her and the tears that ran down her face.

“Cruel,” she whispered to herself as she went through the door that led to the terrace. It was cold outside, her shawl forgotten in the ballroom, but she did not care. “It’s so cruel.”

She leaned on the railing. The stone was cold under her arms and tears ran freely down her face. She had no handkerchief and she did not even reach for one. She let the tears flow as she sobbed and cried, the words like barbs in her heart that worked deeper each time she thought about them.

Nobody. Scandalous. Hoyden. No style or standing in society.

The words hit her like blows and she sobbed again, as if in physical pain. They were indeed like a physical pain, an ache in her stomach as though she had been hit.

“The worst thing is, they are not wrong,” she whispered.

She really was from an obscure family: Papa had not been particularly well-known in London, and he never went anywhere else outside his own barony. She had never really been out in society—a few balls at Almack’s Assembly did not really count. And perhaps she did conduct herself badly. Playing with children and animals was second nature to her—in the endless, empty hours at Wakeford when her father was away in London, she had entertained herself by helping in the kitchen garden, where the staff’s children were often her only companions. No lady would behave like that. They were right. Most ladies had only ever surveyed the kitchen gardens from a distance, and they would never talk to a servant’s child.

“I am a fool,” she whispered silently. She was living in an illusion if she truly imagined that she could become a duchess.

Her cheeks burned at the thought. She had imagined it. She had imagined what it would be like if she could spend her life with the duke, if she could spend her time talking and laughing with him, dancing at every ball as they had danced that one dance. The images that filled her mind were beautiful ones, joyful and innocent.

Tears ran down her cheeks again and she did not try to stop them.

She tensed. A sound had disturbed her—a noise that was louder than her own tears; something like a footfall on the leaves in the corner of the terrace. Her back went stiff, her arms locking where she gripped the railing.

“Miss? Miss Brooke?”

“Your G race ?” Sarah spun round, recognizing the low, resonant voice instantly. She gaped up at the duke’s face as he stood beside her. His face was shadowed in the half-darkness of the terrace, painted in a tapestry of gray and inky blue-black shadow. He was wearing a white shirt with a high collar, an elaborate cravat. She could not see the color of his breeches since it was lost in the obscuring darkness. She stared up at his face. She saw his lips lift in an uncertain smile, and then he frowned.

“You’re crying.”

“It is...nothing,” Sarah whispered. She did not want to tell him what had happened, what she had overheard. She felt deep shame at his mother’s words and she was sure that they were true.

“No,” the duke said insistently. “It is not nothing. You’re crying. Here,” he added, and she frowned as his hand moved to his side. He reached out a hand, holding something out to her.

“Thank you,” she said, giggling despite her sorrow as her fingers closed on a square of cloth.

“It’s a fresh one,” he said with a lift of his lips. “Word of honour.”

Sarah laughed and dabbed at her cheeks. His caring, his kindness, had taken the sting out of his mother’s cruel words. Whatever she and her friend thought, her son did not appear to see it that way. She folded the handkerchief, and her fingers closed over it, holding it tight against her palm. It was his. It was precious to her.

“What troubles you?” the duke asked after a long moment.

Sarah let out a sigh, leaning against the rails. It was cold in the darkness, but it felt good—clean and healing after the stuffy oppressiveness of the ballroom.

“Nothing,” she said softly.

He continued staring at her, his gaze boring into her as if to say that he did not believe her, that he expected a reply. She chuckled.

“Do you insist?” she asked him.

“Mm.”

She smiled up at him and he looked down at her, his gaze tender in the half-light. She could see his eyes better where he stood with his elbows on the railings. They were gentle.

“I suppose I was thinking how uncomfortable I feel here,” she said, deciding to tell him the truth without mentioning his mother and her friend. “I mean, I suppose I’m nobody.” She gave a small laugh to try and hide the sadness in her words.

“Nobody is nobody,” the duke said softly.

Sarah gazed up at him. He was a duke. He outranked all the peers: everyone, except the Regent and the King, were of a lesser rank than himself. And yet he said that.

“I suppose,” she said quietly.

“I know ,” he said firmly.

Sarah looked up at him. His long, slim face was still, and she gazed into his eyes. She wished she could ask him the story of why he said that; what gave him such certainty where anyone else of his rank might simply believe the opposite.

“You are right,” she said quietly. “But it is hard to believe that sometimes.” She let out a sigh. Her fingers laced through each other, and she stared down at them, gazing at the grayish paleness of her fingers against the black stone in the darkness. “Everyone here outranks me.”

“That’s not true, for a start,” the duke said firmly. “Miss Halston is also the daughter of a baron, and Lord Elwood was recently the son of a baron, or he wouldn’t be one now.”

Sarah sighed. “I suppose that is true,” she admitted. “But everyone else here has been part of society before. I really am nobody. I went to three balls in London. That was my Season. My debut. Nobody has ever even seen me before.”

The duke gazed at her. “I imagine that circumstances were difficult,” he said after a long moment.

Sarah nodded. “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, they were. Not financially—I mean, Wakeford is not an excessively rich barony, but nor is it a poor one. We did not want for money for my debut. It was not that.”

The duke said nothing, only watched her in the darkness and she drew a deep breath. She could sense that he was waiting. The story had weighed on her for so long and she had never realized it before. Hearing the two women discussing her so mercilessly had made her realize what a burden that obscurity was; how it drove her further and further away from everyone. She wanted to tell someone.

“Father was a—a difficult man,” she managed to say. “I loved him. Of course I did. He was my father. I believe that all children love their fathers and want to think well of them.”

The duke nodded. “I believe so as well,” he agreed. His voice was tight. Sarah stared up into his eyes and saw pain there. She stopped talking, wondering what to say. After a moment, he coughed. “Please, continue,” he said softly.

“After Mama—after she passed away—he became different. Withdrawn. Quiet. He stopped receiving visitors of any sort. The house became more and more silent. Neighbours would come and see us, sometimes. He could not really keep them away. But on most days, it was just him and me, rattling around in that big, empty house.” She drew in a deep breath. Her throat ached with so many untold emotions. “When I turned nineteen, he deemed that I should have my debut into society. It was already a little late—some of the other ladies around us had debuted much earlier, as young as sixteen. He purchased some tickets for Almack’s Assembly. I had four new dresses.” She paused, biting her lip as she remembered. Pain twisted in her chest at the memory. “I attended four balls. After that, he said that we had spent long enough in London, and that we had to return to the countryside. I had almost no chance to meet anyone, and he deemed that I had failed. He said that he would not allow me another Season, that I would have to stay at Wakeford and look after him.” She tried not to cry. It was cruel. He had made her feel like a failure, like her isolation was her own fault. Even though part of her had always understood that it was not true, that he chose to keep her at Wakeford because he was terribly afraid of being alone, another part of her had also believed his lie. She had believed that she was ugly, uninteresting. Not enough to hold the attention of the people in London.

“What?” the duke interrupted. He gaped at her. “Sorry. I beg your pardon,” he added swiftly. “That is simply horrible.”

Sarah chuckled, a small, sad sound. “Nobody has ever said that before,” she said quietly. “But then, I never told anybody. Who could I have told? Cousin Caroline is my only living relative, and I hardly ever saw her. She was constantly in London, or at her family estate, and we never saw one another.”

The duke gazed into her eyes. Sarah leaned back, wishing that it was lighter, that she could see him more clearly. She blushed as he leaned closer. He really was very close, his face just four or five inches away from her own. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest, and she tried to focus. She could see him clearly, despite the darkness. His blue eyes were firm and sorrowful at once.

“What your father did was wrong,” the duke said. “Wrong, and selfish. I do not mean to criticise those who have passed on,” he added quickly. “But I know that it was wrong of him. To keep you isolated, to keep you there because he needed you...that was pure selfishness.”

Sarah swallowed hard. “I know,” she admitted after a long moment. “But he did need me,” she said swiftly, defending him in spite of how wrong she knew he had been. “And I really am nobody,” she added with a sad chuckle.

His gaze held hers. “Nobody is nobody,” he repeated solemnly.

“You said that,” she said thoughtfully. “I wish that I knew why.”

The duke cleared his throat. “I will tell you,”he replied softly.