Page 2 of Duke of Diamonds
And then he looked up.
His gaze locked with hers across the gilded room, and Fiona felt the connection like a jolt beneath her skin. Those eyes—dark, unreadable—pierced through the layers she had so carefully draped over her composure.
Good heavens!
A small gasp escaped her lips before she could contain it, and she quickly turned her face away, as though that singular glance had laid her bare. Her gaze landed instead on the woman accompanying him.
Petite, elegant, and unmistakably self-assured, the lady held his arm with a familiarity that suggested a bond far deeper than mere acquaintance. Her bearing was proud, not boastful, and though she barely reached his shoulder, she walked as though the ballroom belonged to her.
“That is him,” Hester whispered reverently, clutching at Fiona’s arm.
“That is the Duke of Craton,” she breathed, eyes round with awe.
Fiona said nothing. She could not have spoken if she tried. Her heart was behaving quite unlike itself.
“Quite the elusive beast indeed,” Nancy murmured, her voice a shade breathless.
“I thought you said it was all rumor,” Hester turned sharply, eyes narrowing as she tossed the accusation toward Nancy.
Nancy had the grace to look abashed, her lips curving into a sheepish smile. “Well… one does try to remain sensible. But I am not made of stone.”
Before anyone could reply, another voice broke through, warm and bright in tone, yet unmistakably heavy in intent.
“Oh, there you are, dear. I have been searching every corner of the room for you.”
Fiona stiffened.
Her mother, the Marchioness of Holden, stood before them with her usual air of composed urgency. The gloved fingers of one hand rested delicately at her waist, but her eyes held that familiar, pointed gleam.
“Lady Hester, Lady Nancy,” she greeted with a tight smile that never quite reached her eyes. “What a charming surprise to see you both here.”
“Your Ladyship,” Hester and Nancy curtsied in unison.
“I hope you are enjoying the evening,” her mother continued, already turning her attention back to Fiona with unmistakable purpose.
“We are, indeed,” Nancy offered with polite ease.
“Delightful. Fiona, dear, do come. There is someone you must speak with.”
Fiona hesitated, just long enough to feel the pang of something wilting in her chest. She had been so looking forward to a quiet evening of laughter and whispered nonsense with her friends.
Of course Mother has other plans. She always does.
“You are not in want of distractions this evening,” Prudence Pierce murmured, leaning closer as they wove their way through the crowd. Her tone was soft enough to pass for maternal concern, but Fiona knew better.
Fiona’s brows lifted slightly, though she kept her expression as composed as ever. “My friends are not distractions, Mama,” she replied, her voice quiet but resolute.
Her mother made a dismissive sound, the kind one might make when brushing lint from one’s sleeve. “Where is your dance card?” she asked instead, ignoring the protest entirely.
They paused near the orchestra, just out of the sweep of the dancers, where the scent of beeswax and rosewater mingled thickly in the air. Prudence’s gaze swept her daughter with swift calculation.
“And good heavens, child, you look nearly as pale as the wallpaper,” she said under her breath, her eyes narrowing. “Pinch some color into your cheeks. Honestly, Fiona, you look ghastly.”
Fiona’s cheeks warmed, though not from embarrassment. She brought a gloved hand to her face, her fingers fluttering near her cheekbone but not quite obeying the command.
Is there ever a moment when I am not under inspection?
“You do not want Lord Canterlack seeing you like this,” Prudence continued, her voice sharp with censure. “He shall think you unwell, or worse—melancholy. And that is the last impression we want to give.”
