“I think he is a reformed one,” Ben said, only to have Daniel snort derisively.
“Rakes are never reformed, Ben,” Daniel said. “Your clergyman father’s idealistic beliefs are just a tad too unrealistic.”
“And you are a tad too cynical,” Ben copied Daniel’s words. “Father is not blind to the wrongs of this world; he just chooses to think that they can all be rectified.”
A dour thought ran through Daniel’s mind, but he didn’t voice it. Instead, he shrugged, “Àchacun son gout.”
“To each his own, is right,” Ben reiterated. “Which is why I want you to come and get out of your shell. You can find happiness again, I promise you. Who knows, you might even find your match tonight.”
“This is not a fairy tale, Ben,” Daniel said dryly. “If you can find such lady by midnight, I’ll give you a thousand pounds.”
Ben snorted, “Keep your money; just tell me thanks when you’re happy.”
Lifting his cup, Daniel dryly said, “To a Merry Christmas.”
* * *
Later that evening, as his coach pulled up to Carrington Manor, he briefly considered ordering his driver to turn back. Through the elegant mullioned windows, a happy scene of gaily dressed women and men met Daniel’s eyes, and he felt his stomach twist. Inside, he knew that he would see people staring at him, whispering behind his back about his disgrace—but he had made Ben a promise, and he could not turn away now.
At least their gossip gullets won't lack for meat on the morrow.
Daniel knew he was overly cynical, but he did not doubt that whispers would be following him all night. All he could do was not to give anyone the satisfaction of believing it bothered him.
The coach came to the front walk, and he descended, handed his card and invitation to the footman, and entered the Manor. Gilded columns and large arches made the large ballroom look almost twice its size. Light from beeswax candles lit the room from three chandeliers dripping with teardrop crystals.
The orchestra's tunes were almost hypnotic, blending with the muted sounds of cheerfulness, and the tinkling of glasses overflowing with red wine and golden champagne. There were no more than thirty-five people, and Daniel wished it had been a crush.
Strategic mirrored walls reflected the finery of the guests twirling over the dance floor. Daniel skirted the room until he glimpsed Ben speaking with a woman. His eyes skittered over her but then snapped back to the golden shimmer that shone off her auburn hair.
When she turned, he was struck by her bright-blue eyes, an oval face, and plump lips. Her beauty alarmed him, and for a moment, he felt affixed to his place on the floor. Her gown was low-cut chiffon cobalt satin that left her shoulders bare. The bodice fitted her torso so tightly that he wondered if she could breathe.
The lady hugged Ben tight, intimately—and a flash of unfounded jealousy blazed through Daniel. She moved off, and the cascade of herfull skirts created the image of a waterfall.
Ben looked up, saw him, and gestured him over with a smile. On the way there, Daniel snagged a flute of champagne and downed half of it before he got to his friend.
“Seeking liquid courage?” Ben asked, with a wry twist of his lips.
“I’m afraid what I’ll do if I don’t,” Daniel replied, then carefully extricated any tone of jealousy from his voice—or so he thought. “That lady, who was she?”
A dark brow shot up, “Why do you ask?”
Daniel tried to reply, but found no words. He opted to shrug before finishing off his champagne. Ben laughed, “She is my last sister, Harriet, Raster, so don’t get any unfounded ideas. At only nineteen, Martha brought her here to find a better life than the one she could find in the countryside at Bradford Cottage.”
“Oh,” Daniel muttered, swiftly taking another flute from a passing waiter.
Ben’s head tilted, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Daniel said, as the set broke, and the dancers came off the floor, chattering among themselves. “Let’s play a game, Ben. How long will it take for the whispers to start?”
“Egad,” Ben huffed, “you’re an insufferable creature.”
To prove his point, Daniel took out his pocket watch, “Time is ten-fifteen. I guarantee you by ten-thirty, this room will be filled with whispers of the cuckold.”
“Will you give up on that,” Ben griped, “who carries gossip for over two years?”
“Dame Delilah Rattigan,” Daniel said, immediately while angling his chin to the lady seated on the sidelines, swathed in mounds of silk and fanning herself with a matching fan. “She is behind all the scandal pages.”
Now, Ben looked exasperated, “For Christ’s sake, let go of the conspiracy theories and try to enjoy yourself.”
