The ladies drifted closer, like swans in their white dresses. Anyone who had ever had to clear a pond of swans, as Meg had, knew there was nothing delicate or gentle about them. They could break your arm with one swipe of their beak. These ladies might be a touch more subtle, but they were every bit as dangerous. “I feel like a plate of dinner at the chop house,” Dougal shifted uncomfortably. “Napoleon has nothing on them.”
Meg knew she was supposed to agree with him, say something cutting about the desperation of unmarried ladies. They were referred to as being ‘on the shelf’, called spinsters, old maids, even ape-leaders since the punishment for not marrying was being damned to ‘lead apes in hell’. Correction: the punishment for a woman.
And she was one herself. Spinster, Old Maid, Ape-Leader. She ought to have new calling cards made. Something tasteful, with a gilt edge. Miss Splendor, The Ape-Leader.
And Dougal, feeling the same trap close around him, ought to have a little more compassion.
“Can you blame them?” she asked quietly. “We must marry but we seldom have a say as to who will take control of our fortunes and our very lives. Even less so than you. It’s strange for you to be in that position, but we, as women, are meant to take it with good grace and nary a question or complaint. And you retain your rights, Your Grace, after marriage. We do not. Being a duchess would be some consolation, I suppose, when one is not a person in the eyes of the law.”
“I suppose so.” He glanced down at her. “But not for you?”
She snorted. He looked even more startled. Even he had to know that ladies did not snort.
“I didn’t mean to cause offense,” he added.
“Of course not.” It wasn’t his fault. And her struggle with her own lot was not his fault either. This was a ball. It was meant to be dancing and games and light entertainment, despite Pendleton’s unsubtle hunt for husbands for his goddaughters. The only way through was to laugh about it. To paint it in her mind’s eye with bright yellows and whites for the candlelight, an eerie blue for Dougal’s eyes, pretty pastels for the pastries on the table. Gilt for the golden almonds in her reticule.
“Are we friends again?” Dougal asked. He sounded more vulnerable than he looked, especially with that burning gaze, the tension in his shoulders. If Henry still looked the part of a man returning from war, Dougal looked as if he had just entered one. Some battlefields were strewn with bodies, others with roses. Her fingers itched to paint it.
“Of course,” she replied. “But we should return to the others.”
“So soon?”
“I’m afraid so, Your Grace.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I must.”
He grumbled to himself, and it was strangely endearing. He offered his arm and when she took it, she was not disappointed by the warmth and the strength of him. By the sheer presence and energy of him invading her carefully controlled space. The ballroom, by contrast, was too bright and too crowded and too exposed. “Bugger it,” he muttered when ladies began to creep closer, like ivy up a garden wall. Or hunting hounds on the scent. Still, Meg could not stop a startled laugh. He slid her a sidelong glance. “I should apologize for that, I’m sure.”
“You should, but there’s no need,” she assured him. “Although I would not recommend it for drawing room conversations.”
He grinned, fleeting, a lightning flash from that storm cloud. “Am I too old for a governess?”
“I should say so.”
“Pity. I might have let you instruct me.”
Heat liquefied in her thighs. She kept her smile polite. His grin turned positively wicked, as if he could see her reaction. The heat spread, tingled.
Botheration.
“Ah there you are,” the Duke of Pendleton’s hearty voice boomed in their direction.
Oh, thank God.
She moved to released Dougal’s arm and his hand tightened over hers for a moment, as if he did not want her to.
He really was dangerous, this one.
“I see you’ve met my dearest Meg, Thorncroft.” The duke wore his favorite frock coat, a few years out of date but resplendent with embroidery. It was her own work and he never tired of telling anyone who complimented it. It had taken an entire winter to complete the procession of Vestal Virgins to the temple. A thousand, thousand stitches.
His expression was concerned when he turned to her. “I heard you swooned. You’re not ill, are you?”
“Fit as a fiddle,” she promised.
“Hmph.” He eyed her carefully. “You do look flushed.”