Page 20 of Anastasia and the Duke
"I am here at my grandmother's behest," Oliver grumbled, annoyed that his friend had also bought in to the tabbies’ assertions that he was "besotted" with Miss Blackmore.
"Of course," Kit soothed, unable to hide his smile of amusement, "Tell me, what is she like, this Miss Blackmore? The wholetonhas spoken of nothing else since she made the papers, yet very few have seen her."
"She's pretty," Oliver conceded, reluctant to admit his infatuation to his friend, "If you like dowdy spinsters."
"I think I do," Kit replied, his attention caught by something near the doorway, "If they look likethat."
Oliver followed his gaze and spotted Lady Lansdowne entering the room, on the arm of a young woman whom Oliver almost did not recognise, such was her transformation.
Miss Blackmore drew every eye, and the room erupted into whispers.
She was dressed in a Grecian round robe of apple blossom crape, worn over a skirt of white satin. The bodice was decorated with white beads, which glinted under the light of the room's chandeliers, and matched the pearls around her neck, as well as the beaded headpiece which held up her flame-red curls.
She was radiant, beautiful, and utterly beguiling; Oliver was a fool to have called her merely pretty.
"Lud, man," Kit gave a low whistle, "I don't blame you for your infatuation; a chit like that would make any man want to get leg-shackled."
"Who said anything about getting leg-shackled?" Oliver retorted, though he nervously hoped that Kit wouldn't take this as permission for him to pitch his own suit Miss Blackmore's way.
"Of course," Kit soothed, in the same patronising tone he had used earlier, "Whatever you say..."
Mercifully, for Kit, Oliver's dour response was interrupted by the arrival of Lord Hunter, whom neither man had expected to see.
"Has my grandmother got her claws into you too?" Kit queried, refusing to believe that any man would attend a ball such as this voluntarily.
"Not quite," Hunter replied mildly, his eyes scouring the room as though in search of someone. He gave a slight smile, as he found who it was that he was searching for, and Kit--ever observant--gave an amused chuckle.
"Got your eye on Miss Robin?" he queried, for it was Lady Uptondown's granddaughter that had set Hunter off smiling, "A dangerous endeavour; she's so prickly, she'll poke it out if you look for too long."
"Actually," Hunter said pointedly, as he fixed the buttons on his gloves, "Miss Robin and I are to be married; it will be announced in tomorrow's papers."
There was a silence, as Oliver blinked and Lord Kitteridge flushed bright red.
"Well, I can honestly say I wasn't expecting that," the marquess drawled, before offering Hunter a heart clap on the shoulder, "Congratulations, old man."
"Thank you," Hunter bowed his chestnut head as Oliver also added his felicitations, "It wasn't exactly expected, but it is what it is."
"How romantic," Kit replied dryly.
Oliver longed to press the earl for more information, but he resisted, for it would be futile. Hunter was a man who held his cards close to his chest, Oliver and Kit might never learn how this all came about.
Perhaps fearing further questioning, Lord Hunter bid his friends goodbye and made for Miss Robin. Kitteridge watched his departure sadly and gave a mournful sigh.
"One down, two to go," he muttered, before casting a disparaging eye Oliver's way, "And I'm not holding out much hope that you will remain my company in bachelorhood for much longer."
"Don't be ridiculous," Oliver sniffed, though his attention was distracted as he spotted swarms of young-bloods circling Miss Blackmore.
"Go," Kit instructed, plaintively, "It's best I become accustomed to solitude, for I see a lot of it in my future."
As such dramatics did not warrant a reply, Oliver merely rolled his eyes and clapped Kit on the shoulder, before he began to push his way through the crowd toward his prey.
As at the dinner party, Miss Blackmore offered her smiles freely to those who courted it. And, as before, Oliver wanted to wring the necks of each man she graced with it.
As the ball room was stuffed with people, all glittering gaily under the light of a half-dozen chandeliers, by the time Oliver neared Miss Blackmore, her hand had already been claimed for a dance.
He scowled, as Lord Delphin led the red-haired vixen to the dance-floor, before retreating to a spot by the wall, where he could glower in peace.
The set was a Quadrille, and Oliver looked on longingly as he watched Miss Blackmore fumble her way through the steps. Though his eyes were captivated by her, his ears could not help but overhear the conversation between two elderly ladies who stood a little away from him.
