Page 65 of Duke of Myste
The mingled scents of roasted chestnuts and mulled wine drifted through the evening air, punctuated by the sharper notes of gunpowder from the fireworks and the exotic perfumes worn by ladies whose origins were decidedly more questionable than their jewels suggested.
Here, beneath the glittering canopy of lights, the rigid social hierarchies of London seemed temporarily suspended. Merchants’ wives walked arm-in-arm with countesses, their conversations animated by shared wonder rather than careful protocol.
“Oh my,” Diana breathed, her eyes wide as she took in a group of performers whose costumes sparkled and whose movements defied every aspect of proper feminine deportment she had ever been taught. “Are those ladies actually… leaping through the air?”
“Acrobats,” Harriet explained with obvious delight. “And yes, they are quite deliberately defying gravity. Magnificent, is it not?”
Diana nodded, her usual reserve dissolving in the face of such spectacular abandon.
Jane noticed how her sister’s hand had unconsciously loosened its death grip on her reticule, how her shoulders had straightened with something that might have been envy at the performers’ obvious freedom.
A commotion near the central pavilion drew their attention—a crowd gathering around what appeared to be a heated debate between two gentlemen. As they drew closer, Jane recognized the voices, though both men wore the half-masks that were fashionable for such evening entertainments.
“Lord Ashworth,” Richard murmured near her ear, his breath warm against her temple. “And I believe that’s the Viscount Hartley with him. It seems even Vauxhall cannot entirely escape the reach of parliamentary politics.”
“How dreary,” Harriet scoffed. “Surely they could find more entertaining ways to spend their evening than arguing about laws surrounded by fire-breathers and dancing girls!”
The sight of familiar faces, even partially concealed, seemed to remind them that they were not truly anonymous here.
Jane felt Richard’s hand tighten almost imperceptibly on her arm, his protective instincts clearly warring with his promise to trust her judgment. But before anxiety could take hold, a shower of golden sparks erupted from a nearby pavilion where a craftsman was demonstrating the art of metalwork, and the magical atmosphere reasserted itself.
“Come,” Jane urged, tugging Richard away from the political discussion and toward a cluster of booths where artisans displayed their wares. “Let us see what wonders await discovery.”
“Look!” Harriet pointed toward a raised platform where a silk-clad woman balanced on a tightrope stretched between two towers, her graceful movements drawing gasps of admiration from the crowd below. “I have never seen anything like it.”
Diana’s hands fluttered nervously at her sides, her usually pale cheeks flushed with the adventure of it all. “Are we quite certain this is… proper?”
“Nothing about tonight is proper, Sister,” Jane replied, amusement lacing her voice. “That is rather the point.”
Richard felt his chest tighten with an emotion he could not quite name as he watched his wife take in the spectacle around them. Here, freed from the constraints of societal expectations, she glowed with a vitality that took his breath away. Her dark eyes sparkled with delight at each new wonder, and her laughter rang out like whimsical bells whenever some particularly stunning display caught her attention.
“Your Grace.” A gentleman approached with a respectful bow. “Might I have the honor of requesting your first dance? I am Lord Pevensie—we met at the Godfrey soiree last month.”
Richard felt every single muscle in his body tense at the request, though he forced his expression to remain neutral. This was precisely what he had instructed Jane to expect—as a duchess, she would be approached by various gentlemen seeking a dance with her, and propriety demanded she accept such invitations graciously.
“Lord Pevensie.” Jane inclined her head with perfect courtesy. “I would be delighted.”
The words struck Richard like a physical blow, though he knew they were exactly what etiquette required. His jaw clenched.
He had spent considerable time explaining to Jane the importance of dancing with multiple partners at public events, of showing no particular favoritism that might be construed as improper intimacy with any gentleman, including her own husband.
Now, watching another man lead his wife toward the dancing area on the main pavilion, Richard discovered that intellectual understanding and emotional acceptance were two entirely different things.
“She is following your instructionsperfectly,” Harriet observed with barely concealed pride—or perhaps amusement—appearing at his elbow as they watched Jane take her place in the forming set. “You did tell her that a duchess should dance with various partners to demonstrate her approachability, no?”
“I did,” Richard replied through gritted teeth, his hands clenched behind his back as he fought the urge to stride onto the dance floor and reclaim his wife from Lord Pevensie’s clutches.
“How democratic of you,” Harriet continued, her tone suggesting she was enjoying his discomfort far more than a sister should. “Though you do seem rather… tense for a man whose wife is simply following his instructions.”
Richard shot her a warning look, but his attention immediately returned to the dance floor, where Jane was moving through the steps with her usual grace. Upon taking a second look, it was clear that Lord Pevensie was a competent dancer—and he maintained a respectful distance, Richard acknowledged grudgingly.
Which made his overwhelming desire to plant his fist in the man’s face entirely unreasonable and thoroughly alarming.
“I had not realized,” he said carefully, “how difficult it would be to watch her dance with someone else.”
“Had you not?” Harriet’s smile was knowing. “One might almost think you had developed some sort of… attachment to your wife.”
Before Richard could formulate a suitably cutting response, the music swelled and Jane laughed at something her partner said, the sound carrying clearly across the pavilion.
