Kit slouched back against the wall of Lady Marmotte’s grand ballroom, and wondered whether Tom had called the butcher when the piglets were born. Their meat brought better money when they were still suckling, but she knew how soft-hearted her brother could be, still. She’d looked him direct in the eye and made him promise, but even now she wasn’t sure he would.
She took a long sip of fruit punch and nodded over the rim of her cup to a tall blonde girl called Sylvie whom she’d met a couple of times. They tended to end up on the same side of a ballroom, somewhere in the small, desperate clutch of women nobody wanted to dance with.
Sylvie pushed past a group of chatting women, dragging another girl behind her up to where Kit stood.
‘This is her – the Countess of BenRuin’s sister.’ Sylvie peered closely at her. ‘How much older than your sister
are
you exactly?’
‘I bet you never eat a thing at breakfast,’ the smaller, dark-haired girl said, her eyes fixed on Kit’s face.
‘I haven’t had any trouble eating —’
‘If I sat across from him I swear I wouldn’t be able to choke a thing down.’
The music swelled into the end of a dance, and dancers left the floor laughing and talking. Kit wondered if she’d somehow misheard the girl over the noise.
‘If you sat across from..?.’
Sylvie and her friend stared at Kit like she might have some mental deficiency. ‘Lord BenRuin,’ the girl said, hugging herself. ‘He’s so large and brutish. He walked right by me in the street last week, and I swear my skin is still tingling.’
‘Your sister is very beautiful, of course,’ Sylvie said, seeming to delight in her own dismissive tone. ‘But she isn’t one of the great hostesses yet. Not like Lady Jersey or Lady Marmotte. Mama told me Lady Marmotte began planning this party three months ago, and hired one hundred and twenty extra servants to make sure it came off right.’
The girls gazed around the ballroom like they had discovered heaven. Kit, to whom all ballrooms looked equally large and glittering, watched a man – balding, squeezed into his white waistcoat – spill a drink over himself then look furtively around to see if anyone had noticed. People were people, wherever they were.
Sylvie scanned the crowd; Kit supposed she had proved a disappointment.
‘Do you think the Duke will come?’ the dark-haired girl whispered to Sylvie, her voice an agony of longing. ‘Lord BenRuin could ask for a kiss and I wouldn’t even notice, if the Duke were here.’
Kit’s attention was brought forcefully back to the conversation.
‘Which duke?’
The girls turned identical looks on her. Baffled. Pitying. ‘There is only one duke,’ Sylvie said with absolute conviction. ‘Who cares what the old Duke of So-and-So does in his mouldy estate with his rheumatism and his dogs? There is only one duke. The Duke of Darlington is . . . he’s . . . he’s so . . .’
She and her friend shared significant glances, as though she’d just delivered a full paper on all the Duke’s qualities, rather than proving him somewhat indescribable.
‘Is he expected tonight?’ Kit asked.
I almost killed a man today.
‘I don’t know,’ Sylvie said, frustration clear on her face. She looked sideways at Kit. ‘We could always ask your sister.’
The dark-haired girl flushed, deep and red, and she poked Sylvie in the ribs.
Sylvie turned to her, face pulled tight. ‘Everyone knows it’s true. Even Mama talks about it, and she abhors gossip. Mrs Armitage seated Lady BenRuin and the Duke together at her Christmas dinner for a lark, and Mama said —’
The other girl pulled urgently on Sylvie’s arm.
‘Lou, what the devil do you mean by —’ Sylvie looked where her friend pointed, and froze.
Lydia was making her way over with a man at her side. Her eyes rested briefly, indifferently on Sylvie and Lou, because they were in her way. They curtseyed, mute, and made themselves scarce. A countess was not so easy to dismiss when she stood right before you, apparently.
Kit didn’t smile at the thought. If even those girls felt they could talk about Lydia so loosely, Lydia’s world was more volatile than she had realised.
‘Sir William,’ said Lydia to the man at her side, ‘may I present my sister, Miss Sutherland?’
The man wore black and white; his hair was neatly styled, his smile impeccable.
‘What a great pleasure it is,’ he said, ‘to meet the sister of the
ton
’s darling.’
‘It’s a pleasure,’ Kit said. Then, ‘I mean, not to meet me, but to meet you, William.’
He stuttered over her hand and she thought, I wish you would just give up now. Neither of us is going to enjoy this.
‘My sister has only been in town this past month,’ Lydia said, leaning conspiratorially into him. Kit watched his eyes devour Lydia – her smooth, golden beauty – and wished suddenly she was the savage they all thought her, so that she could spit and scratch at him.
‘Katherine, dear, you should not address him so informally until you become better acquainted. Oh, I see Lady Sybilla. Please excuse me.’
Kit watched her sister leave.
Did
Lydia know if the Duke was coming tonight? Was she waiting for him?
‘Are you enjoying London thus far, Miss Sutherland?’ William asked, in that smug way they all asked it that sounded like,
Has London taught you to despise your parochial home yet?
She turned to him. ‘You must have some money, or my sister wouldn’t be throwing you at me. The more eligible the man, the worse I come off, the better the joke. She doesn’t like me very much, you see.’
‘I, er, ha ha, yes, very original. Very original.’
Kit was called original a lot.
‘Would you do me the honour of dancing with me, Miss Sutherland?’
She thought of what Lydia had been saying to her, just before BenRuin interrupted their tea.
Make use of your disadvantage. Make him think of having his arms about you
. But Sir William’s impeccable smile had become difficult for him, his gloves twisted about his fingers. This was not the man to risk being charming for.
‘I don’t know how to dance,’ she said. ‘You know that no matter how much attention you pay to me, you will never touch my sister. That is a dream. One you’d do best to give up on.’
He started, like she’d just reached inside his trousers. ‘I beg your pardon? I have no such intentions —’
‘Aye, you do,
sir
. You dream about having her beauty to yourself in some dark corner.’
William flushed and looked away. ‘If you weren’t the sister of Lady BenRuin, one might feel at liberty to call you unfit for company.’
Dear Lord. ‘Was that supposed to be a cut? At least you have remembered whose wife she is. The only man who may touch her, after all, is her husband. Is that not true?’
‘Do stop speaking of touching! I never heard such indelicacy in my life!’
‘Of course you have. You have heard the rumours about my sister and the Duke, and it’s made you think of nothing else but trying for her yourself. After all, once a duke’s done with her she’ll be fair game for the mere sirs of this world, eh?’
He turned on her, and there was nothing handsome about him now. ‘My father used to play cards with yours. It’s more than she deserves, to have old blood like me interested, and I’ll
touch
if I want to.’
‘And there it is,’ she said, wiping his spittle from her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘There’s what you really think of the
ton
’s darling, hiding so close to the surface.’
‘I don’t. I didn’t.’ He looked suddenly unsure of what she had exposed in him.
He probably hadn’t deserved that. Likely he dreamed of her sister, but would never be bold enough to try for her.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ she said, ‘the Duke won’t be touching her any more either.’
William took a step back from her; his eyes wouldn’t meet hers.
‘So pleased to make your acquaintance,’ she said to his retreating back.
Sometimes, in the very early hours of morning before she had forced herself to throw back her covers and start the day, she would discover a cold fear lodged in her chest. She was twenty-eight years old. She wondered, on those mornings, whether it might be worth accepting the hand of any man who could be persuaded to offer for her.
Just not a man like Sir William.
Sylvie waved at her through the crush, like she’d been waiting for William to leave, and began making her determined way over, Lou in her wake. Kit wondered if they’d been sneaking drinks behind their chaperones’ backs.
The heavy air closed back in around her, the press of sweaty bodies, the gusts of breath, the chatter from too many mouths, the gulp and spill of drinks. She knew from experience that Lydia wouldn’t let her leave before at least three in the morning. Hours and hours of remaining upright.
‘We have news about the Duke,’ Sylvie said, standing much closer than necessary; this corner of the ballroom was less crowded than the rest. Lou came up beside her, closing Kit in.
‘Lady Marmotte has made it known —’
‘— all over town —’
‘— that she intends to
have
the Duke. Lord Marmotte is in a rage about it, and has the footmen bribed to keep an eye on the Duke’s every movement, should he —’
‘— should he
dare
to show his face tonight.’
Their faces were flushed with triumph. They thought this a marvellous piece of news. Kit, who had seen one husband’s rage already, didn’t. Devil take London and all the people in it.
‘Also,’ Lou said, looking guiltily around, ‘just last week —’
The steward announced the Duke of Darlington.
Kit’s heart beat hard, once, and she fought the urge to go up on her toes for a look. She’d only ever caught glimpses of him before, always surrounded: a mincing, perfumed sort of a man. The crowds parted around the stairs and through the centre of the ballroom.
Sylvie, who was pushed into Kit by the movement, said, ‘Do you think God might reach down and make him decide to dance with me? Lou, I can’t breathe. We must get closer.’ She pulled Lou away; Kit was certain they’d forgotten she even existed.
Curiosity won, and Kit went up on her toes. She could just make out his head, moving through the centre of the room, his distinctive storm of dark hair obscuring most of his features. He wore collars so long and pointed they could cut, and his coat buttons were bright enough to pick out across the room.
She landed back down on her heels.
‘Disappointed?’
She started, and turned to the man beside her. ‘You are —’
Oh, dear God, he was beautiful. A grave, pale face; eyes the deep, complex blue of an evening sky; thick black hair slicked back. He lounged against the wall beside her, wearing a plain black coat and trousers, a simple black cravat, small collars. He was the same height as she, his body lean and loose. She had seen grooms lean like that against a stable wall, but never a man drawn with such grace. He tilted his head, his eyes catching hers. They looked at each other without saying a word and then the corner of his mouth kicked up. ‘I am?’
Her heart bloodied itself against her ribcage. She didn’t want to open her mouth and speak. She would come off badly, as she always did; she would be shown in all her unbelonging.
He didn’t ease the silence between them. A violin rasped out one note over the conversation in the room, then the music struck up again.
‘I don’t dance,’ she said at last.
‘No, I heard you tell William as much.’
‘You were listening?’
‘With rapt attention. You have a unique style, Miss Sutherland. I have been trying to unravel it, so that I may understand it.’
‘Style of what?’
‘Breaking into a man. As far as I can tell you were honest at him until he gave in. Not a style I can readily emulate. Why don’t you dance?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why can’t you dance?’
How to even begin to answer this elegant, eloquent man, who wouldn’t understand even if she spelled it out plainly for him?
‘Mother wanted me to learn, but other things always needed my attention first.’
‘Such as?’
‘Feeding the pigs,’ she said, throwing it at him because he unsettled her.
He came upright off the wall, and for the first time his powerful self-possession was disturbed. ‘You are the sister of Lady BenRuin. Why do you feed pigs?’
She just stopped herself from saying,
Because they’re hungry
. ‘I take an interest in the home farm. It’s not so unusual.’
‘No,’ he said after a moment, and settled back against the wall. ‘I suppose not. Can your mother dance?’
‘You shouldn’t ask me that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not —’
‘Polite?’ He laughed, and she wanted to put that laugh into the blue pot that sat on her dresser at home, and keep it forever.
‘I don’t care about polite. My mother’s none of your business.’
‘Then why did you mention her to me?’
‘You . . . eavesdropped on me. It threw me off.’
‘Did no one ever have the presence of mind to be rude back at you before?’ he said. ‘Ah, do not fight that smile. Your voice promises sunshine, you see. I thought at first it must be a false advertisement, but I have this curious feeling your smile will be a kind of sunrise.’
He said the words with easy confidence, but the slight tilt of his lips told her he knew his own extravagance. His eyes told her nothing at all. They were unflinching on her face, and she felt each of her features as he snatched them from her. She covered her crooked nose, realising too late that in her haste she’d used her free left hand.
He grabbed her hand, and held it close. Through the slide of her glove and his he explored the crooked joints of her two smallest fingers. She didn’t breathe.
‘What happened to your fingers?’ he murmured. ‘Was it the same fist that broke your nose?’
‘Excuse me.’
‘No, stay,’ he said. ‘Stay.’
She hesitated.
‘Please,’ he said, and tripped over the word. It was like watching a prize thoroughbred trip over a twig.
‘Don’t ask about my hand,’ she said. ‘Don’t ask about my nose. Don’t ask about my mother or my damn pigs.’ There. She was curt and spare, like the countryside where she had carved herself a home.