Page 35 of The Duke
“Yes, do, Henry,” Lady Pecke said, waggling her closed fan at her son. “It is uncomfortably hot in here, and nobody has seen to Miss Genet’s comfort.” This last was spoken with a small, reprimanding glance in the duke’s direction, which Celine was certain the dukesaw, and this tickled her no end.
“Thank you, sir, you are kind.”
Lord Burnley smiled, and his cheeks dimpled in the most startling manner. Then he was gone to fight his way to the drinks table, which had become more crowded since the girl had stopped singing.
“My son has been looking forward to making your acquaintance.”
“No more than I,” she said truthfully.
“Shall we join my young cousin Miss Finemore in the next room?” Lady Pecke asked. “She has a number of suitable young friends you will enjoy meeting. Though I must warn you, they’re all terribly enamoured of the violinist who is to perform next.”
Celine cast an anxious glance over at Lord Burnley, who hadn’t yet obtained her drink.
“Lord Burnley will follow us as soon as he is able,” Lady Pecke said, with a twinkle in her eye.
Celine happened to catch the duke’s eye as she turned to leave and knew she was furious. Furious at being stuck talking to Lord Pecke; furious at Celine for leaving her side (the duke seemed to have an unwholesome fear of what Celine might do without her watchful eye: hand out copies of the letter, perhaps, or offer to suck the footman off for a shilling).
Somehow, learning more about the duke’s past and character had only made Celine’s hatred of her more potent. Perhaps because the duke had taken such care with the reputation of a maid and had struck her own cousin to protect an unknown girl on Bond Street, yet hadn’t bothered to save Celine.
Slowly she smiled at the duke. As slow, and hot, and dazzling as she knew how.
And for a moment—just the briefest, most impossible moment—the duke’s face went blank, wiped clean of all feeling. Then, hotter than before, fury returned.
It was sweet, so sweet. She couldn’t unlive the past three years, but she could extract a small measure of suffering from the duke in recompense. She knew the mad urge to use her hold over the duke,here and now, in front of everyone, to exercise this single power she had. She could tell the duke to go to her knees before her in supplication. She could tell the duke to kiss her slipper.
And she knew—and the duke, in that burning fury, knew—that the duke would do it.
“My dear?” The gentle query from Lady Pecke brought back sanity so suddenly she heard her fevered fantasy pop. The ordinary world returned. The kind woman beside her returned, with concern in her eyes, who thought her a sheltered young innocent.
“Forgive me,” she said, taking Lady Pecke’s arm, her hands prickling and sweating inside her gloves. “I had a queer turn. I am well again.”
In the salon, Miss Finemore greeted her with shy good humour, but as the violinist had just begun to play, most of Miss Finemore’s friends spared Celine only the most cursory greeting before turning back to watch, eyes shining.
One young woman, however, came directly to Celine and baldly looked her over, head to toe and back again. The girl was dressed very elegantly, and she waved a fan before her face which made the feathers in her hair flutter. Her clothing, which must have cost a fortune, faded entirely into the background beside her face. Framed by a tumble of pale golden curls, it was exquisite.
When her perusal reached Celine’s face again, she snapped her fan shut and said decisively, “You are also very beautiful. You and I shall be friends.”
Celine wanted to laugh, but she said as mildly as possible, “Forgive me, your name?”
“Lady Florence Morton. You shall call me Florence. As we are to be such intimates, I shan’t call you Miss Jennet. I refuse to speak French so long as your nation persists in the ill-mannered practice of beheading my relatives, and the name sounds so ill in English. What is your Christian name?”
She gave it, feeling a little dazed. “And are you acquainted with my guardian, the Duke of Howard?”
Florence’s response was a bored shrug that showed no interestin the topic. It seemed she truly wished to befriend Celine for her own sake, as though somehow their both being beautiful made friendship obvious.
“You don’t moon about this young man on the violin?” she asked, nodding towards the player on whom the other girls were so fixated.
“Celine, I am an heiress. I don’t moon about over anyone.”
Speculatively, Celine cast an eye about. She and Florence together had attracted a significant amount of attention. “No, youarethe moon,” she said. “I understand.”
With a look of approval, Florence linked her arm through Celine’s. “Being a singular celestial body, alone in the vastness of space, does occasionally make one feel so morose, does it not?”
“Calling yourself a lump of rock, Flo?” The straightforward, no-nonsense voice broke into their conversation and a moment later, Lord Burnley was by Celine’s side. He passed her the hard-won drink.
Florence made a very funny little face, her mouth pulling down and her tongue pushing out. “Shut up, Henry. At least you’d know what to do with a lady, if she were a lump of rock.”
“Throw her over the back fence?” he said mildly.
