Page 61 of His Grace, the Duke
Rosalie let out a slow exhale, saying nothing as the other ladies sneered. She was too busy focusing on the way Marianne’s mouth had shaped the word “Tom.”
“Miss Nash will have to watch out for you,” Marianne goaded, knowing she’d hit her target. “I hear the Duke of Norland suffers from a most pernicious case of the wandering eye. With such a treat before him, however will he look away?”
“I’d hate to be Miss Nash,” huffed the lady on the left.
“Forced to compete for attention in my own home? It is not to be borne.”
“Some men just prefer dross to gold,” Marianne replied, taking another sip of her punch.
“Hmm, too true, Mari,” cooed the lady on the right. “And some people need to be reminded of their proper sphere.”
Rosalie could feel her heartbeat in her ears. It mixed with the hum of conversation around the room. Too much noise. Too many people. Too... everything. She blinked. Were her eyes wet? Was she about to cry in front of these women?
Never. Pull yourself together.
Trying her best to recover her dignity, she lifted her chin and smiled. “I must go find Lieutenant Renley before the concert resumes. He’ll no doubt be wondering where I am.” She dipped into a little curtsy. “Excuse me—”
Marianne stepped forward, clutching Rosalie’s gloved wrist. “No, he isn’t,” she hissed in her ear. “He isn’t wondering that at all. Because Tom doesn’t think of you. He will tire of you, and he will cast you aside as just another gossip column skivvy.”
She raised her free hand, brushing it along Rosalie’s jaw. This was the second time this woman had dared to touch Rosalie in such a familiar way. Rosalie stiffened, feeling the satin of the glove against her skin like it were sandpaper.
“Such a pretty little rose,” Marianne murmured. “So soon to wilt.”
“Take your hand off me,” Rosalie said, enunciating each word.
“Gladly.” Marianne dropped her hand away.
Without waiting another second, Rosalie slipped between the crowd, moving as far from Marianne Young as possible. She left the hall, following a sign for the ladies’ dressing room. Tugging open the door, she stepped inside, closing it with a snap. Thank heavens, the room was empty.
Sagging against the door, she let out a shaky sob, putting her gloved hand over her mouth. She leaned against the wood for a minute, trying to control her breathing. Then she stumbled forward, reaching for the drink cart like it was a lifeline. She gripped it with both hands, pouring herself a glass of tepid lemon rosemary water.
Before she could raise the glass to her lips, a deep voice spoke behind her.
“Oh, Cabbage . . . that was embarrassing.”
29
Rosalie
Rosalie spun aroundwith a gasp. The duke was standing by the door. “Your Grace,” she said on a breath. “This is a ladies’ dressing room.”
He glanced around, noting the sparse furniture, the row of vanities along one wall, the painted screen in each corner. “So, it is.”
“You should not be in here.”
His eyes narrowed. “Neither should you.”
She held his gaze, feeling her lower lip start to tremble.
The duke just watched her. He wore a black evening coat with black breeches that came to the knee, and crisp white stockings. His double waistcoat was a mix of blue and gold, and his cravat was a handsome burgundy patterned silk. His only adornment was his signet ring, which he twirled round and round on the smallest finger of his left hand.
She took a shaky breath. “You heard.”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t close enough to hear it all... but I saw.”
She gave a little nod, her gaze dropping to the carpet.
He leaned against the door. “I’ve known Marianne Young all her life. I’ve never seen her sharpen her claws on another lady before. Your mere presence made her go feral. Why?”
