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Reggie entered the ballroom with his customary wariness. He’d received a forceful welcome visit from Mrs. Daphne Tortworth, who’d practically ordered him to attend her ball. His attempts to decline the invitation had been ineffective, and he cursed himself for not having a list of ready excuses for when he was approached with invitations.
Men and women formed elaborate patterns to the gentle hum of a string quartet. Footmen carried silver platters over their heads, and the vibrant food glinted appealingly despite the speed of their lengthy strides.
This was a mistake.
The place swarmed with people. A few people glanced at him. Some widened their eyes in obvious recognition, but most dismissed him. Plenty of men in Bath walked with limps, coming here for the city’s supposed medical prowess. He swallowed a sour taste. Normally, people found him intimidating, but now he was simply another ailing person.
He should have stayed in his apartment. Reggie crossed his arms against his chest and eyed the door longingly. Perhaps he could sneak through it, rejoin Ulysses, and pretend this never happened. He surveyed the guests in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner.
Some of these inhabitants had long ago decided to make Bath their permanent home. They’d seized the opportunity to achieve a higher societal perch than if they’d visited London each year, determined to mingle with the uppermost of the upper crust, and finding themselves lacking in the requisite titles, shared childhood miseries at the top schools, and Parisian fashions.
Reggie turned back toward the door.
“Your Grace!” A high-pitched shriek hampered his retreat, and a middle-aged woman wearing a turquoise turban adorned with a single large peacock feather barreled toward him. “What a pleasure to see you!”
Guests halted their conversations and stared. The hostess’s dress would have been effective as a costume at the Royal Opera House. If people couldn’t hear her loud voice, they could certainly see her.
In the next moment, she reached him. “I am so pleased to see you, Your Grace.”
“Hmph,” he grunted.
She stepped back, and the large, ludicrous peacock feather swayed.
He cleared his throat, anxious to get rid of these mandatory pleasantries. “The—er—pleasure is all mine.”
Mrs. Tortworth beamed in obvious pleasure. “You are quite kind, Your Grace.”
He gave a tight smile. Perhaps she hadn’t actually said he was kinder than expected, but the implication remained present. Evidently, people conflated a love of boxing with an immediate memory lapse of every etiquette lesson and chivalrous instinct.
Blast it. He despised that people were wary of him. He abhorred how their eyes widened at every interaction, and he loathed the whispers that wafted past him after he left their company.
“We are delighted to have you at our tiny, humble ball, Your Grace.”
Reggie wrinkled his brow and gazed about the room. Large mirrors adorned the walls, reflecting the bouncing dancers as they struggled to match a fast-tempoed reel. Though the mirrors gave the illusion of space, that didn’t mean the ballroom lacked space.
He returned his attention to his hostess. “It’s hardly tiny.”
She smiled, and Reggie had the odd sense she also didn’t consider the ball tiny or humble. Humble balls hardly contained elaborate iced swans melting languidly over banquet tables covered with constantly replenished punch bowls and trays of canapés.
“Well, welcome to Bath,” she said brightly.
He shifted his legs, as if the action might release the pain dwelling in his knee, and tightened his grip on his cane. Mrs. Tortworth’s gaze shifted to his leg.
“Thank you for the kind welcome,” he said hastily, eager to end their interaction.
“Mr. Tortworth will be so eager to see you.” She glanced around the room. “I don’t suppose you’ve spoken to him already?”
He snorted. He was certain Mrs. Tortworth would have noticed her husband speaking to him.
“You’re the first person I’ve spoken with.”
She beamed and tossed her hair, causing her ringlets to sway in a manner that might have made her maid nervous. “Well, that makes me important.”
He tightened his smile. “Indeed.”
Any irony was lost on his hostess, for her cheeks pinkened, and she dragged him to a group of equally well-dressed women. Pain ricocheted through him, and he forced himself to ignore the aching sensation. He tottered, and Mrs. Tortworth glanced again at his knee.
“Am I walking too quickly? Do forgive me, Your Grace.”
He scowled. “Naturally, you’re not.”
Perhaps he uttered the words with more force than the action required, for her eyes widened.
A man with gray sideburns joined them. “Is everything fine?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Tortworth squeaked. “This is—er—the duke. Your Grace, this is my husband, Mr. Charles Tortworth.”
Unlike his wife, Mr. Tortworth adopted a more uncomplicated view on attire. At least, no peacock feathers were visible, and even his waistcoat–that last refuge of playfulness after aristocrats had abandoned their pink tailcoats, powdered wigs, and pantaloons at the beginning of the century–was a plain black.
Mr. Tortworth’s eyebrows leaped toward his hairline. His brows’ grayness had not rendered them devoid of any athletic ability. “Did you say duke?”
His wife nodded rapidly, her face strained.
Mr. Tortworth exhaled noisily, and it occurred to Reggie that Mr. Tortworth had thought him an unwelcome guest. He peered at Reggie’s face, no doubt scrutinizing Reggie’s scar.
Finally, recognition dawned, and Mr. Tortworth nodded. “Ah, you’re the duke who boxes.”
“So I am.”
“Dangerous sport, boxing,” Mr. Tortworth mused, examining Reggie’s face again.
Reggie averted his gaze, wishing he could hide his scars from Mr. Tortworth’s indiscreet interest.
“That’s why he got injured, sweetheart,” Mrs. Tortworth added.
Reggie’s nostrils flared. “I’m not injured. Not—er—much.”
Mrs. Tortworth shot him a pitying look. “That’s not what your doctor says.”
Reggie tightened his lips. Clearly, he’d been wrong to expect any discretion. No doubt Dr. Richard Everett Smythe-Essex had been delighted to mention his newest patient.
“Must be common to get injuries when boxing,” Mr. Tortworth mused. “Personally, I never exercise. No injuries for me.”
An awkward pause ensued, as if Reggie were supposed to extol Mr. Tortworth’s intelligence.
“Exercise has its merits,” Reggie said.
“But not injuries.” Mrs. Tortworth shot her husband an adoring gaze.
“They have rather fewer merits,” Reggie admitted.
“Fewer?” Mr. Tortworth asked.
“None,” Reggie clarified. “Absolutely none. I was going to say I would never be here had I not been injured, but you’re correct. Any advantages are utterly minuscule compared to the disadvantages of even a simple, not very important injury.”
Hurt filled the Tortworths’ eyes, and Reggie knew he should be feeling regret that he’d characterized attending their ball as a minuscule benefit of his injury. But his heart didn’t pang, and heat didn’t flood his cheeks.
“Well, Your Grace,” Mrs. Tortworth said finally. “Let me direct you to the banquet table. Should you care to dance, you’ll find ample potential dance partners near the fireplace.”
“I’m certain he doesn’t desire to dance,” Mr. Tortworth said to his wife, before turning to Reggie. “Don’t let her force you. You can barely walk as it is.”
Reggie stiffened. “I can walk.”
“Er—yes.” Mr. Tortworth forced a smile on his face. “I meant—er—that you boxing men don’t care about such matters. Gracefulness and boxing don’t mix.”
Mr. Tortworth chuckled, as if he’d said something witty, or perhaps he was merely hopeful the sound of his laughter would make Reggie forget his earlier statement.
Personally, Reggie thought gracefulness and boxing did mix. In fact, they mixed quite wonderfully. How on earth was one supposed to avoid being hit if one didn’t possess a certain gracefulness?
He decided not to get into a lengthy conversation on the matter. The banquet table sounded like an excellent destination, and he soon excused himself, conscious he’d done nothing to enhance his already imperfect reputation.
He helped himself to a plate, making certain to paste a scowl on his face, lest he be bombarded with more awkward encounters.
A footman approached him. “Your Grace.”
Reggie glanced up. His plate wobbled, and he moved it to his non-cane clutching hand.
“I have a note for you,” the footman said.
“Oh.” Reggie blinked, shifted his plate to his left hand, and took the note. Note passing was something he hadn’t done since his Harrow days.
Please visit the fireplace.
- D
He frowned. “D?”
The footman’s eyes danced. No doubt, the man was delighted to be involved with note passing. Undoubtedly, this “D” had chosen his messenger well.
“Who is ‘D’?”
“A most delightful young lady.”
Young lady.
He pushed his eyebrows together. “I don’t know any young ladies here.”
“She didn’t seem to think so,” the footman said and gestured toward a stone fireplace. “She’s sitting to the left of it.”
Reggie’s gaze fell on a familiar blonde woman clothed in a pink dress.
His stomach fell.