Page 68 of Duke of Myste
Her wonder at the hot air balloon lifting majestically into the star-filled sky, her delight in the elaborate fountain that sprayed colored water in time with the music, her laughter when a particularly bold juggler managed to keep flaming torches aloft simultaneously—every response felt precious, worth preserving in perfect detail.
“You are staring again,” Jane murmured during a brief moment when Harriet and Diana were distracted by a troupe of costumed dancers.
“I am memorizing,” Richard corrected, his thumb lightly stroking her gloved knuckles. “This night, this joy, the way you look when you are utterly happy—I want to remember every detail.”
“Why?” Jane asked, though her smile suggested she already knew the answer.
“Because this is the night I truly understood what we are,” Richard replied simply. “I want to remember the moment I realized that everything I thought I knew was merely a shadow compared to loving you.”
“Then remember this too,” she murmured, rising on her tiptoes once more and kissing his cheek.
As fireworks began to explode overhead in brilliant cascades of gold and silver and emerald light, Richard pulled Jane against his side and marveled at the extraordinarily unremarkable circumstances that had brought them together.
Soulmates, indeed. Two people who had found one another not just in love, but out of an inexplicable pull to completion—a connection that had been forming since the very moment they drew breath.
The night air filled with music and laughter and the scent of winter roses, and Richard knew with absolute certainty that no entertainment Vauxhall Gardens could provide would ever compare to the spectacular wonder of being loved by Jane.
CHAPTER 21
“Jane! The scandal sheets have arrived!” Harriet’s voice rang out through the morning air like silver bells, entirely too cheerful for such an ungodly hour.
Jane paused in her careful spreading of marmalade on her toast, a peculiar flutter of anxiety suddenly taking residence in her stomach.
The servants had laid out the morning papers as usual, but she had been deliberately avoiding them, preferring instead to savor the lingering warmth from last night’s magical evening at Vauxhall Gardens.
The memory of Richard’s love confession during their dance—his declaration that she was his destined partner, his soulmate—had wrapped itself around her heart like the finest silk, and she had been reluctant to allow the harsh light of public scrutiny to tarnish its perfection.
“The papers are hardly scandal sheets, Harriet,” she replied with careful composure, though her fingers trembled almost imperceptibly as she reached for her teacup. “Though I supposetheMorning Postdoes occasionally indulge in Society commentary.”
Harriet’s laughter carried a note of wicked delight as she swept into the breakfast room. “Oh, my dear sister-in-law, you are about to discover that Society commentary and scandal are often indistinguishable. Particularly when one attends events as… stimulating as last evening’s entertainment.”
The flutter in Jane’s stomach transformed into something considerably more urgent. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
“I am not suggesting anything,” Harriet replied, lowering herself into her seat with theatrical grace. “Merely observing that certain members of the ton appear to have taken quite an interest in the Duke and Duchess of Myste’s recent social endeavors.The Morning Post, in particular, seems positively enchanted by your appearance at what they deem ‘the most scandalously delightful spectacle London has witnessed this Season.’”
Jane set down her teacup with a sharp clink that seemed to echo through the breakfast room like a gunshot. The carefully constructed tranquility of the morning shattered around her, replaced by the familiar cold dread of public scrutiny.
“They mentioned us specifically?”
“Oh, dear Jane,” Harriet sighed, her tone a mixture of sympathy and barely suppressed mirth. “They practically devoted an entire column to your appearance. Something about the usually reserved Duke of Myste appearing ‘utterly besotted’ while dancing with his Duchess at an event ‘featuring acrobats, fire-breathers, and other entertainments more suited to circus grounds rather than polite society.’”
“Utterly besotted?” Jane repeated, her voice rising an octave despite her best efforts to keep her composure. The words sent an unexpected flutter through her—half mortification, half something dangerously close to pleasure. “They used those exact words?”
“Among others,” Harriet confirmed, her eyes dancing with glee as she unfolded the paper with a theatrical flourish. “Shall I read the full passage? It’s quite… illuminating.”
Jane’s hands fluttered to her throat, her fingers tracing the delicate chain of her necklace—a nervous habit she had developed recently whenever Society’s scrutiny felt particularly sharp. “Perhaps just the important details.”
“Oh, but the poetry of it, Jane! Listen to this.His Grace’s usual reserve appeared to have been entirely abandoned in favor of what can only be described as devoted attention to his Duchess’s every reaction to the evening’s exotic entertainments.” Harriet’s voice took on the pompous tone of a Society reporter. “The Duke was observed to smile—actually smile—no fewer than six times during the evening, a frequencythat longtime observers of His Grace’s public appearances will recognize as unprecedented.”
Despite her anxiety, Jane found herself fighting back a smile. “They counted his smiles?”
“Apparently with great dedication. But wait, there’s more.” Harriet cleared her throat dramatically. “During their waltz, the usually restrained couple appeared so absorbed in their private conversation that they seemed entirely unaware of the fascinated audience surrounding them. Indeed, several guests commented that they had never witnessed such… intensity of feeling displayed on a dance floor.”
Jane’s cheeks burned as memories of their waltz flooded back—the feel of Richard’s hand on her waist, the way his eyes had burned into hers, the moment when he’d confessed his deepest feelings, declaring her his soulmate.
Had they truly been so obvious? So lost in one another that they’d forgotten where they were?”
“The article continues,” Harriet said, her tone growing more serious, “but I think you should know that it’s not entirely critical. In fact, the writer seems rather… enchanted by the romantic spectacle you provided.”
