Page 38 of A Lady's Beastly Duke
“I was never as fond of a dance,” the duchess said, grinning. “I much preferred soirees.”
“But Viola! You danced so much,” Lady Camberwell objected, her eyes round and wide.
“I didn’t have much choice,” the duchess said with a laugh.
“Quite so!” Lady Camberwell agreed, chuckling. “At least five men would be queuing before each dance.”
The duchess just smiled. “That was long ago,” she murmured.
“Youth is not beauty,” Mama noted, and the duchess beamed.
“No. Beauty is a quality unto itself. Yet, at times, they do coincide. Like your daughter, yonder.” She glanced over at Anastasia, who felt a warm flush rise to her cheeks once more.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she whispered.
Mama smiled at the duchess. “I heard of you. You had your debut three years before me. Everyone was gossiping about the lovely Lady Viola, daughter of the Earl of Blackford.”
The duchess smiled. “That is kind,” she murmured. “I was merely fortunate to withdraw from society once more with such expedience.”
“Only because you wed Alexander the same year.”
“Yes.” The duchess smiled. “That is true. I was very lucky. My dear, dear, Alexander.” She sounded sad and Anastasia felt her heart tighten in sympathy. She glanced over at her mother, who laid a protective hand over the duchess’ own.
“You must miss him terribly,” she murmured.
The duchess swallowed and Anastasia blinked, seeing tears in the older woman’s eyes.
“Yes. Yes, I do miss him,” she said softly. “I miss him every day. But I see him in my dear boy. My dear, dear boy.” She stopped and Anastasia wanted to cry, too, seeing the mix of love and sorrow in her gaze.
“Is he very like?” her mother wanted to know.
“He is the image of Alexander. It is my greatest comfort,” the duke’s mother murmured. “He is the dearest thing in the world to me. His happiness matters the most to me of all things.”
“I understand,” Mama said gently.
Anastasia blinked in surprise. She knew her mother loved her—she had never doubted it. But seeing the duchess speak of her son, she realized just how deep that love was. She gazed at her mother in renewed appreciation.
“I love my son,” the duchess said with emotion. “He and Alexander were my whole world.”
“I’m so sorry for your grief,” Mama said sincerely.
Anastasia nodded in silent agreement. She gazed at the duchess. This was something else that was new to her—the undeniable love that she could see in the duchess’ eyes when she spoke of the former duke. Her own mother looked mostly fearful when she spoke of Papa. And Papa seemed to have no affection for any of his own family.
I can have a love like the one I feel for the Duke of Willowick,she thought with surprise.It is possible. It is real and permissible and safe.
When she looked at the duchess’ face, at those lines that were from grief but were also from pride and joy; she knew that a life like that was the one she wanted to live. She wanted to throw herself headlong into the love that she felt, to let it carry her like a river and wash her onto the banks of wherever it led. That beautiful feeling like warm honey, like fire, like the stars turning—it was real, and true, and allowed.
She smiled at the duchess, wishing she could tell her how much freedom she had given her just by showing the love that burned within her.
The duchess smiled back.
They sat and talked—lively, amusing conversation about London and the more bizarre aspects of high fashion—and then the clock chimed. Mama gazed around the room.
“I suppose we ought to take our leave,” she murmured to the duchess and her sister-in-law, who were also both readying to stand up.
“I suppose,” the duchess murmured, stifling a yawn with an elegant hand. “It is long past midnight.”
Anastasia stood and greeted the women and walked with her mother to the door. It had been a beautiful evening and images of the dance, and of the duke and those beautiful eyes, ran through her mind as she clambered sleepily into the coach. Herfather shot her a look and Anastasia shuddered, knowing that he had seen her dance with the duke.
