Page 31 of Ne'er Duke Well
“Why?” Iris asked. “Has he an interest in Clarke’s excavation?”
“Um,” said Selina. She rather hoped he did. She had told him to prepare for this, had she not? “I cannot say. But I do know that he is looking to marry. Soon. I’d like to bring him over to speak to you, if you’re amenable.”
Iris nearly upset the book. “Good Lord, Selina. My mother has delusions of grandeur; I’ve always known that. Butyou?”
“Stop that.” Selina ground her teeth. Why were her friends so bloody resistant to the idea that they were desirable candidates for marriage?
But of course, she knew why. Because society had told them they were undesirable for years now. And as much as Selina wanted to transform their narrow-minded world, she had not figured out yet how to changethat.
“Let me bring him over,” she said. “You’ll like him, Iris. He’s a good man.”
“Hmm.” Iris gave Selina a considering glance. “That’s a better recommendation than I’ve heard you give most men of theton.”
“Most of the men of thetonare fools.”
Iris’s mouth tipped up in a crooked smile. “Don’t I know it.”
Exhaustion had sweat pricking his brow as Peter whirled Lydia Hope-Wallace to a stop at the close of their set and watched her make her way toward her mother.
Thirty minutes. Had he really just spoken nonstop for thirty minutes? It was like a parliamentary speech, only he hadn’t prepared remarks.
Well, that wasn’t quite fair. At some point, he’d resorted to quoting his own maiden speech on abolition. And then a second speech he’d been writing these past weeks. Also William Wilberforce, William Pitt, and possibly several other Williams.
Lydia had slowly relaxed, though, as he’d babbled, and she’d even darted her blue eyes up to meet his once or twice. But then they were forced to change partners, and when she’d returned, the whole process had begun again. Terrified Lydia. Nonsensical Peter. Extended rambling followed by gradual thawing of Lydia’s fright.
Perhaps they might suit. Perhaps if he had weeks alone with Lydia at the Stanhope residence, she would find her voice, find herself willing to share what was happening behind the pale facade of her face.
It was clearly a measure of his personal distraction that when he thought about weeks alone with his hypothetical new bride, he imagined spending their days talking politics. There was no good reason that Lydia Hope-Wallace, with her ginger hair and generous figure, shouldn’t inspire him to all sorts of erotic daydreams.
No good reason. One very bad reason.
The very bad reason herself was making her way toward him through the crush, and he felt himself smiling at her. She walked with long, impatient strides, her legs eating up the distance in a way that seemed to declare the ballroom and all its inhabitants in the way of her plans.
He wondered what it would be like to have all that singular focus to himself. On himself. Just for a day. A night. One long cold English night, with nothing but starlight and Selina’s bare skin to keep him warm.
Good Christ. He blinked at her as she approached, trying to remember the expression on her face when he’d mistakenly thought she wanted to dance with him.
She hadn’t. The very idea filled her with horror. She was trying her damnedest to marry him to someone else.
“Your Grace,” she said, her greeting barely acknowledging his bow at her approach. “I’d like for you to meet another one of my dearest friends. Do you remember when we spoke of Miss Duggleby?”
Of course he damned well did.
“I’d be delighted. I’ve studied up on Etruscan art.”
Selina gave him a narrow-eyed glare, evidently trying to determine whether or not he meant it. He smiled innocently at her, and she pursed her lips in a way that had blood rushing away from his brain and decidedly southward. A pout. Who knew Selina Ravenscroft could pout?
“Come along, then.” She linked her arm through his and gave him a solid tug. Her hair was undecorated this evening, pulled back into some kind of twist that had waves of gold spilling down her back. He was close enough to smell her, and he couldn’t put his finger on her scent. Something spiced. Cloves, perhaps, or rum.
He followed her lead, and she took him to one of the corners of the ballroom, where a dark-haired woman of about Selina’s own age sat alone, her head bent over a green-bound volume in her lap.
As they approached, Selina cleared her throat.
The woman did not move. She did not even seem to hear them.
Selina coughed again, rather more loudly. Peter bit hard on the inside of his cheek.
Selina muttered something incomprehensible under her breath, reached down, and plucked the book out of Iris’s hands. She snapped it closed and stuffed it into her own reticule before Peter could see what it was that Iris had been reading.
