Why was she hiding?
“Are you going to seek her out after your dance with Lady Jacintha?” George asked.
No need to clarify the woman he’d seek. His attention drifted to a dormer window on the third floor. He’d been astonished to learn the dowager had ensconced Mrs. Chatham in the east wing. That side of Richland Hall was for family alone.
Gentle light shined through the small square glass. The widow was on the other side of it, hiding away. Once or twice he thought a lonely soul looked down the festivities. He could go to Mrs. Chatham, coax her down from her uncharacteristic tower of solitude. She always did well at local routs. Villagers enjoyed her amiable conversation.
Perhaps she found the size of the ball off-putting? The swell of too much noise?
The orchestra was taking a break. The old fellows were mopping their brows and gulping down punch. They’d play again after a decent rest. His minuet with Lady Jacintha was coming due like a dreaded debt he didn’t want to pay.
A stream of people poured outside, but he would dive in and fish out a certain neighbor tucked quietly in his home. He was about to leave when George grabbed his sleeve.
“You’re going to her now, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“There will be
There would, but he was a duke. Excuses would be made and accepted. It was another thing to take in stride, no different than his stiff new shoes.
The crowd swelled around them. Several portly gentlemen ambled down the steps, heading to the striped canopy where the day’s refreshment tables served as nightly card tables. If he wanted to escape, now was the time, but George tugged his sleeve again.
His brother was earnest, dipping his head to impart a grave message. “Before you go, there is something you need to know about Mrs. Chatham.”
CHAPTER 6
THE LETTER SAT in her lap. She read it again, taking bittersweet delight in each wonderful word.
SHE FOLDED the foolscap and set it lovingly on the table beside her chair. Pandora’s box had been opened by a single kiss and a few choice words. They’d said aloud what had long simmered under the surface.
“How do I put this back inside the box?” she mused to her empty room.
They’d unleashed what could never be, and that was difficult to swallow.
She tucked one foot beneath her bottom and let the other leg dangle. An open book was in her lap. She’d tried to read it several times. The pages swam. The story eluded her.
This self-imposed exile was awful. She’d return home tomorrow. Sneak out early, though it was cowardly. The duke would be busily dancing attendance on three fortunate young women. Really, they’d dance attendance on him. It’d be a race to win his heart.
Her face crumpled. The duke could share his lust with her, but never his love.
Twice she’d peeked out the window at the goings on below. The grounds swelled with merry-makers. Everyone celebrated the Richland family’s return into the blessed arms of society. A season of joy was upon them. She’d not interfere. This past year had seen her traipsing about Richland Hall far too much. Now she would extract her person and drown herself in her garden.
Inquiries about a cottage in Cornwall would be made. The sooner, the better.
A knock at her door startled her. Hair on her arms bristled.
Quiet as a mouse, she shut her book and set it carefully on a side table.
A bolder, louder knock sounded.
Another knock came.
“Come in.”
