WARY OF Juliana's grin, Griffin watched her heading his way with their cousin. "Oh, there you are," she said. "Rachael would love to dance with you."
Rachael's gorgeous sky blue eyes narrowed, making Griffin suspect she found Juliana's statement as preposterous as he did. An awkward moment passed while he shifted uncomfortably. But there was nothing for it—no way to duck out of this situation gracefully.
Sometime in the years he'd spent in the military, Juliana had completely mastered the art of meddling.
"I would be honored, Lady Rachael," he said at last, "if you would join me for the next dance."
"Splendid," Juliana said as the musicians struck up a waltz. "Please excuse me." She waved them toward the dance floor. "I must speak with Alexandra."
"She was just speaking with Alexandra,” Rachael informed him as they began waltzing. “Do you always allow your sisters to run roughshod over you?"
Griffin refused to take offense at her question. For one thing, she felt entirely too good in his arms—which was completely inappropriate—and for another, the remark was made with good humor. "Only Juliana," he told her lightly.
"Like hell," she said. Rachael could curse like a sailor, but he considered that part of her charm. "Alexandra and Corinna know how to play you just as well."
Since he couldn't really argue, he twirled her and changed the subject. "You've been hiding this season."
The good humor vanished, replaced by a melancholy air. Even the chestnut tendrils around her face seemed to droop. "I haven't felt much like mingling."
She didn't have to say why. Griffin knew—although his sisters didn't—that Rachael had been dealt a blow several months earlier when she'd learned the man she'd called "Papa" since birth hadn't actually been her father.
"It doesn't signify," he said quietly.
"It signifies to me. I feel like my life has been a lie."
"Has something changed at home? Is Noah treating you differently? Or Claire or Elizabeth?"
"No. Not at all. But I feel as though they should."
"You all shared a mother. They're still your brother and sisters."
She sighed, obviously shaken. "I know." Her eyes grew suspiciously moist, making him fear that her chin—her adorable, dented chin—might begin to wobble next.
And Griffin found himself wanting to help her.
The entire affair was none of his business. Between running a marquessate and marrying off his sisters, God knew he already had enough on his plate. But Rachael was young and beautiful. She should be enjoying herself, searching for a husband, falling in love. She was his cousin—in name, if not by blood—and he wanted to see her happy.
The haunted look in her cerulean eyes caused a tightness in his chest.
"Do you want me to help you find your father?" he asked.
"No," she said unequivocally. "He's dead."
He thought about pointing out that, whether her father was dead or not, learning his identity might afford her some peace. But the music ended, and she drew back and dipped into a curtsy.
"Thank you, Lord Cainewood," she said without meeting his eyes. And then she walked away.
Given their shared childhood, her curtsy had been way too formal. But Griffin decided it was for the best. He shouldn't have offered to help her anyway—he always found himself clenching his teeth when she was around. The last thing he needed was a woman like Rachael complicating his life.
As he made his way from the dance floor, the Duke of Castleton walked up. "When are you going to sell me Velocity?"
Grateful for the distraction, Griffin laughed. "Never. When are you going to give up asking?"
"Never." Although Castleton gave a determined nod, not a hair on his carefully coiffed blond head moved. "I heard he made a good showing at Ascot."
"A pity you missed the meet," Griffin said, remembering Juliana preferred fair men. "You've a fine stable, Castleton."
"It would be finer with Velocity."
"Velocity—as I've told you at least a dozen times—isn't for sale." Considering the subject closed, Griffin gestured across the room. "I say, would you care to meet my sister Juliana?"
EVERYONE WHO was anyone was at Lady Hammersmithe's ball. Including James's mother, Cornelia—the Dowager Countess of Stafford—and her older sisters, Aurelia and Bedelia.
In the refreshment room, James handed them all glasses of champagne. "How is your throat, Aunt Bedelia?"
"Better. But my chest has been paining me." She put a narrow hand to her flat bosom—Bedelia was as skinny as a rail. "Perhaps you should stop by Monday morning and have a listen to my heart with your new stethoscope."
Doing his best to appear concerned, James sipped champagne. "Perhaps I'll do that."
"Certainly you will," his mother said, but she softened that with a smile that reached her brown eyes.
Besides sharing James's eyes, she had the same dark hair, and he thought, not for the first time, that she was quite attractive for a woman of her years. Aurelia might be a mite plump, and Bedelia a bit too thin, but Cornelia was perfectly in between.
"Have you enjoyed the dancing this evening?" she asked him.
"Am I supposed to?" he responded dryly. "I thought marriage was the object, not enjoyment."
"Grandchildren are the object," Aurelia put in. "And grandnephews and grandnieces."
He'd thought as much. But he couldn't imagine marrying any of the women he'd danced with tonight, let alone siring offspring with any of them. Try as he might—and he was trying, for his mother's sake if not his own—he feared he couldn't imagine marrying again at all.
The problem was, he'd had love and marriage once. So now one without the other—marriage without the love—just seemed plain…impossible. But a loveless marriage was all he could ever have, because loving a woman besides Anne was unthinkable. Even considering it felt disrespectful, as though he would be desecrating Anne's memory.
Not that she'd have objected, mind you. Anne had been generous and giving. She wouldn't have wanted him to be unhappy or lonely all his life. If he'd asked her permission—which he hadn't, of course—she would certainly have said he could fall in love with someone else after she was gone.
But that wasn't going to happen. Whenever he'd danced with a lady tonight, Anne's serious, loyal face had seemed to shimmer before his eyes.
"I only want you to be happy," his mother said.
"I know." He knew, too, that she understood how he felt. Or at least she should. She'd also loved and lost a spouse. "Why aren't you dancing, Mother?"
"Me?"
Perhaps if he turned the tables, she might realize she was pushing too hard. That he wasn't yet ready. "Yes, you. "
Aurelia and Bedelia tittered. Maybe it was the champagne, but he thought not.
"What?" he said, turning to confront them. "Father has been gone longer than Anne. And your husbands have been gone even longer. All three of you should be dancing."
The sisters exchanged startled glances. "We're too old," Aurelia said for all of them.
"Nonsense." Aurelia and Bedelia were well into their sixties, but his mother was only fifty-six. He put down his champagne, then took their three glasses and set them down, too. "You're not going to find new husbands while standing around the refreshment table. Come along."
Grabbing his mother's hand, he drew her toward the ballroom, trusting her sisters to follow. After all, the three of them stuck together as tightly as a bandage to a wound.
His profession required prescribing medicine…perhaps it was time they got a taste of their own.