Page 43 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
“I’m done with pomade. If society decides to shun me because I refuse to smear my hair with that nasty-smelling stuff, then I will happily be banished.”
“This pomade is infused with mint, Your Grace,” Timothy said.
“Yet you can still smell the stench of the suet beneath it.” No matter how heavily it was perfumed, pomade still smelled rank to him.
“As you wish, Your Grace.” Impassively, Timothy returned the pomade to its shelf.
An hour later, Lady Campbell was greeting him. He’d known her father, Lord Norsey, who was a stern sort of man who’d raised his two daughters under an iron hand, but Lady Campbell was energetic and vivacious as she introduced Matthew to her husband, the Scottish war hero, Sir Robert Campbell. Obviously, the two were smitten with each other. Matthew wondered what it would be like when he and his wife—who might be in this very room at this very moment—greeted people at their own parties. Would they look at each other like the Campbells did? With unadulterated affection in their eyes? And would they touch each other so companionably, with such fondness? Doubtful.
Matthew strode into the horde of people, many of whom stopped to greet him. Since he’d avoided social events until this year, he’d known few of these people at the beginning of the Season, but that was changing now. The faces were growing more familiar, but finally he saw a pair more familiar than the rest—Lord Winthrop and Lord Coleton, who both grinned widely as he walked up.
Winthrop slapped him on the back. “You came.”
“Despite your aversion to these things,” Cole added.
“Indeed.”
Cole turned in a slow circle. “Damned hot in here, isn’t it? Where is the refreshments room? I require punch.”
“Irequire a dance partner,” Winthrop said.
They split up, Matthew deciding finding refreshment was a better choice than finding a dance partner. As they entered a room filled with tables laden with hors d’oeuvres, cakes, tarts, and biscuits, Matthew saw Joanna Porter standing off to the side. She wore a simple gown of pale yellow that revealed her voluptuous curves—the dip of her waist, the roundness of her bottom, the creamy swells of her breasts. God, she was lovely. After taking a glass of punch, Matthew excused himself from Cole and walked over to her.
“Miss Porter.”
She startled, and her punch sloshed over the lip of the glass. “Oh dear!”
“Sorry.” Taking out his handkerchief, he knelt and mopped up the tiny amount that had spilled onto the floor. When he rose, she was smiling at him, which softened his own tight lips enough to turn upward.
“Well, good evening, Your Grace.”
“It’s good to see you,” he said, and he wasn’t lying. Seeing her had loosened something in him.
Her eyes flicked back to the dance floor, and they stood for a few moments in companionable silence. Then, she said, “Are you ready to meet Miss Cherrington and Miss Islington?”
“I suppose.” He supposed he didn’t have much of a choice.
“They are both dancing, but when she is finished, Miss Cherrington will return to me, so you will be meeting her first. I’d suggest you ask her for the next dance. If you enjoy yourself, you should ask her for a second dance in approximately one hour.”
“You have this all planned out, don’t you?”
“It is my job, isn’t it?”
Her job. Right. He took a healthy sip of punch.
The music wound down, and the tension in Matthew’s belly wound up. Harriet Cherrington would be approaching him soon. Would she be the one?The onein lowercase, of course. Not in uppercase—he wasn’t looking for that, as much as Jo would like him to think he was.
His eyes scanned the ballroom as the dancers separated from their partners. There were many, many young women here tonight, some attractive, some plain, some tall and some short, some fair and some dark. He’d no idea which one was Harriet.
Until she was practically on top of him.
“Your Grace, I’d like you to meet Miss Harriet Cherrington. Miss Cherrington, this is the Duke of Crestmont.”
Harriet Cherrington was passably pretty, which was neither here nor there, he supposed. Her hair was dark, her stature average, her jewelry and dress appropriate for the occasion.
“Your Grace,” Miss Cherrington said as she bobbed a curtsy.
He bowed. “Miss Cherrington. I am pleased to meet you.” They chatted about the fine weather for a few minutes, Matthew forbidding himself to delve too deeply into the topic, and when he asked her if she’d care to dance, she said, “Why, thank you. I’d love to.”
