Lady Priscilla’s Shameful Secret. Christine Merrill
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shout at her and storm from the room.
It would not matter. She had been shouted at by experts, now that her poor sister was no longer in the house to take the brunt of Father’s temper. What could this stranger possibly say that would hurt her?
But Reighland was staring at her with no change of expression and an unusual degree of focus. She felt the slightest upward tug on the hand he held to move her out of her curtsy to stand properly before him. She did not need Veronica’s advice to straighten her spine for she needed every last vertebra to hold her own against the tower of manhood in front of her.
At last he spoke. ‘Lady Priscilla, may I have the next waltz?’
If he wished to upbraid her for her manners, he could do it in company and not by hauling her around the dance floor and trapping her in his arms for the scolding. ‘I am sorry, but I believe I am promised.’
‘How unfortunate for the gentleman. When he sees that you are dancing with me, I am sure he will understand.’ He cocked an ear towards the musicians. ‘It seems they are beginning. We had best go to the floor. If you will excuse us, Lady Benbridge?’
And so she was headed for the dance floor with the Duke of Reighland. She had little choice in the matter, unless she wanted to have a tug of war over her own evening glove. His grip on her arm was gentle, but immovable.
And now they were dancing. He was neither good nor bad at the simple step. She did not fear that he would tread upon her toes. But neither did she feel any pleasure in the way he danced. He approached the waltz with a passionless and mechanical precision, as though it were something to be conquered more than enjoyed.
‘Are you having a pleasant evening?’ he asked.
‘Until recently,’ she said.
‘Strange,’ he said, staring past her. ‘I’d have said just the opposite, if you had asked me. It has suddenly become most diverting compared to other recent entertainments.’
‘I would not know,’ she said, ‘for I have not attended any.’
‘I understand that,’ he said. ‘It is because of your sister’s recent good fortune. I met her last evening at the Folbroke rout.’
Now she had to struggle to remain blasé. He had seen Silly. She must remember to think of Silly as Dru, just as Drusilla’s friends did. Dru had many of those now and not just a little sister to tease her with nicknames. It had been months since the last time they had been in the same room together. But then they had not spoken and stayed on opposite ends of a ballroom that might as well have been an ocean. Priss had been forced by Veronica to cut her own sister dead.
If Ronnie got wind of it, she would snap this tenuous thread of communication, even if the man offering it was a duke. Priss replied to Reighland’s news with a single, ‘Oh.’ It hardly summed up the extent of her feelings. She wanted to pull him to the side of the floor and interrogate him until she had gleaned every last detail of his exchange with Dru and could recall them as clearly as if she had been there herself.
But the dance could not go on for ever and she did not want to give the man reason to speak. She would have to do without.
He had noticed her silence. ‘It surprises me to find you so uninterested. Mrs Hendricks was most eager for any news of you. Do you find yourself jealous on her account?’
‘Certainly not. It is about time that Drusilla had the chance to be happy.’ She looked longingly back at the wallflowers, wishing she was amongst them. Perhaps one of them had been at the Folbrokes’ party and could give her the information she craved. ‘It seems I am out of practice in social settings.’ She glared up at him. ‘I do not remember the conversation being quite so rude, when last I waltzed.’ He would let her go now. That had been a direct insult and he could hardly ignore it.
But her barbed words bounced off his thick skin as though they meant nothing. ‘You must make an effort to get out more,’ he replied. ‘It was at my request that you were invited here. I wished to meet you. I will see to it that you receive further such invitations.’ He said it without a smile. Did the man have no emotions at all?
‘If you wish,’ she added for him.
‘Of course I wish. That is why I will do it.’
‘You misunderstand me, your Grace. What I meant was that you should have finished your last sentence with the phrase “if you wish.” Then it would mean that you would see to it I received further invitations and could accept them if I desired. It would imply that I had a choice.’
He ignored her lack of enthusiasm. ‘If I give you a choice, I can well guess what your answer would be, although I am at a loss as to the reason for it. You seem to have taken an instant dislike of me, though you have known me for all of five minutes. I suspect that you would have formed the same opinion of me without even leaving your house, if I had given you the chance. But that would not do at all. It is time that you are brought out into the light so that a man can get a proper look at you.’
‘Why would you need a proper look at me?’
‘I mean to marry,’ he said, as though it were not obvious. ‘And you are a front runner. But no matter what your father might think, I cannot be expected to make a decision based on his word alone.’
‘He could have shown you a miniature and you could have made a judgement from that,’ she said. It was clear that her opinion did not matter. Of course, she supposed, since the man was a duke, her acceptance was assumed. Why would she refuse?
Other than that he had the manners of a stable hand.
‘It would not have been the same,’ he assured her. ‘You are quite lovely and I am sure no picture would do you justice.’
‘I am not so different from many others,’ she insisted. ‘If you wish for a pretty bride, you would be better served to make the rounds at Almack’s. Everyone who is anyone is there.’
‘In knee breeches,’ he added. ‘There is a limit to what I will go through, simply for the sake of marrying.’
‘They are proper attire for evening,’ she said bluntly.
‘They are uncomfortable,’ he said with equal bluntness. ‘And they do not suit me. I will wear them at court, of course. I mean no disrespect to the Regent. But beyond that, trousers will have to do.’
‘So you are willing to limit your choice of bride, based on your unwillingness to dress for evening?’
‘Just as you are limiting your choice of husbands by not attending Almack’s,’ he said.
Touché. She could not explain her way out of that without admitting that she could no longer get vouchers. ‘Perhaps I do not wish to marry,’ she hazarded.
‘Then you should go for the dancing,’ he suggested. ‘You are very good at it.’
‘Thank you,’ she said glumly.
‘If we marry, I will not worry about having to hire a dancing master for you.’
She stumbled. He knew. Not all, perhaps. But enough. She pulled her hand from his, prepared to quit the floor.
He grabbed it back again and kept her in place. ‘You will not get away from me so easily. Wait until the end of the music. Anything else will make you appear skittish.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘I do not tolerate skittishness.’
‘And I do not care what you do or do not like,’ she said.
‘Then we are not likely to get on well.’ He gave a thoughtful nod as though he were marking a check on the negative side of some invisible list of wifely qualities. ‘Other young ladies are much more agreeable,’ he said. ‘One might even say that they fawned.’
‘I expect so. You are a duke, after all. A marriageable miss cannot aspire higher than that.’
‘Then why do you not express similar behaviours?’