Page 33 of What's a Duke Got to Do With It
She laughed, the sound mingling with the music, filling him up with a kind of joy. It was the first true laugh he had heard from her since his arrival; he had forgotten what the sound of it could do to him.
Suddenly she sighed, a wistful sound. “Do you recall that night at Vauxhall? It was truly beautiful there. This reminds me of that, you know.”
The memory of that night took shape in his mind, how he had seen her in her dinner box with a group of her friends, the small smile she had given him when he’d approached, how he had promenaded with her around the Grove before asking her to dance. How he’d longed to take her on the Dark Walk and kiss her senseless.
“All it needs is ham thin enough to see through,” he said now.
She laughed again, but it was a quiet, subdued sound. Guiding her around a group of boisterously talking elderly men, he found an unpopulated area of the path with a clear view of the rest of their party before, stopping, he turned to her.
“Do you miss it?”
Of course she would know immediately he was not referring to Vauxhall, but the life they’d had. “Sometimes.” She gave him a sad smile. “I think it would be strange if I did not. Especially considering what has become of me since.”
At once he felt as if he had kicked a kitten. “Damnation, Miss Denby,” he said gruffly, “I’m so sorry—”
But she held up a hand to stop him. “I know you told me the night of the dinner party that I should accept apologies given. But truly, your apology now is uncalled for. After all, I could certainly ask the same of you. And I shall. Doyoumiss it?”
Only the times that you were part of.The words very nearly escaped his lips, and he was shocked at how utterly true they were. Thinking back, he had not truly enjoyed all the constant movement and stimulation and entertainment. It had merely been a way to alleviate the boredom of having no direction or purpose. Only he had not realized that until Miss Denby had arrived in London, dazzling him with her sweetness and innocence and the utterly artless way she viewed everything around her.
Blessedly he was able to hold the words back, however, instead parroting what she had said. “Sometimes.”
Again that sad smile. “We are a melancholy duo, are we not? But you have gained a bit of your old life back again. You shall marry, and take your rightful place, and all shall be right in your world.”
Nothing shall be right ever again.Once more unbidden words whispered through his mind. This time, however, instead of mulling them over he forcefully pushed them away.
“As will you,” he responded quietly. “Once you find that husband and marry as you wish to do.”
“Yes.”
They fell quiet, each mired in their own thoughts. A bubble of sadness in the midst of happy revelry. Just then Bridling and his new friends broke away, heading for the posey stall. They bought armfuls of the small bundles of flowers, then proceeded to hand them out to every female in their purview. Suddenly Bridling approached.
“For you, Miss Denby,” he said with a gallant bow before, with a broad wink, he made his way back to his friends. Talking animatedly, they started off down The Promenade, following the young women.
Miss Denby brought the small bundle to her nose, sniffing appreciatively before tucking it in her bodice. “Mr. Bridling is such a lively gentleman,” she observed as, her arm tucked once more in Sebastian’s, they followed behind the rest of the party. “Is his sister much the same?”
For a moment frustration reared. He did not wish to talk of Miss Bridling. But he knew Miss Denby had the right of it. It was a lovely thing to talk of the past. But they must realize it was well and truly behind them. They could only look toward the future. And his future was Miss Bridling.
“Actually, no,” he replied. “She is much like her father. Do you recall Lord Cartmel?”
“Not well, no. He was a serious man, if I remember correctly.”
Which was putting it mildly.“Yes, he is serious, as well as a brilliant businessman. His daughter has inherited his talents and is wonderfully competent.”
Which was not the language of a lover by any means. Blessedly Miss Denby did not seem to notice.
“She sounds wonderful.” She gave a little sigh. “What I wouldn’t do to be considered wonderfully competent. But I fear I shall always be seen as slightly silly.”
Offended despite himself, he stopped and stared in outrage down at her. “Who has said that about you?”
She shrugged, seemingly unbothered. Except for the slight tightening at the corners of her mouth, which betrayed her hurt over the moniker. “My brother Francis used to say it often enough.”
Sir Francis Denby. Sebastian had been friends of a sort with the man at one point. Well, no more than an acquaintance, really. Yet he had known him enough to feel concern over the fact that he had fought in a duel and lost an arm—as well as to wonder what the blazes had possessed the man to drag his family fortunes so low that his sister had been forced to work as a companion. He ached to ask Miss Denby about her brother now, just as he had when she had mentioned him that night she had played the pianoforte for them. But she had so quickly changed the subject, her discomfort with it plain as day.
The last thing he wished to do was to cause her further discomfort or dismay. And so instead he replied quietly while starting off after the others, “Well, your brother was wrong.”
She did not respond. But he saw the deepening of the dimple at her cheek, proof that what he had said pleased her.
Suddenly there was a shriek and a shout from the crowd up ahead. And then Bridling’s voice rose above it all.
