Page 42 of Reclaimed By Her Scottish Duke

Rosaline said nothing, which was safest, and let Abigail read whatever she liked in her face.

“Lord Darton,” Abigail said, “might I steal Rosaline for a turn about the room? A lady is so much more visible in motion, and you did say you wished her to be seen.”

Samuel considered it, found it served his purpose, and waved a permissive hand. “Both of you. And keep your eyes open. There are three eligible bachelors in this room worth the trouble, and I expect at least one of you to catch the eye of one of them before supper.”

Abigail dropped into a curtsy that was pure mockery from the neck down and drew Rosaline away into the crowd. They had taken perhaps ten steps before she glanced back, confirmed Samuel had already turned to more important people, and let her face fall into a scowl of magnificent proportions.

“That man,” she hissed. “That cold, calculating, ledger-hearted tyrant. Marched before gentlemen like a horse. I could put something in his wine. Make him hug his chamber pot all night long.”

“Abigail.”

“I am not saying I will. I am saying it comforts me to know I could.” She squeezed Rosaline’s arm. “How do you stand him? Truly. How have you endured him this long?”

“I endure him because I will not have to for much longer.” Rosaline heard the words come out steady and certain, and watched them stop her friend in her tracks. “I mean to marry this Season, Abigail. A sensible match, a good one, and the day I am mistress of my own house is the day Samuel loses his say over me and, in time, over the girls. That is my plan. And I intend to see it done.”

Abigail stared at her. “Who are you, and what have you done with the friend who used to hide behind the potted palms at social events?”

“She grew tired of the palms.”

“Rosaline.” Abigail’s eyes sharpened. “Something has happened. I have known you since we were seven years old, and you have never once in your life sounded like this. What is it? What has changed?”

At that moment, across the sea of heads, Rosaline’s gaze caught on a tall figure by the far wall, a copper-brown head and a pair of green eyes already fixed on her, and her heart lurched hard against her ribs.

She looked away at once, before Abigail could follow her gaze.

“Nothing has changed,” she said, a tad too quickly. “Only my mind. It is simply that I ought to secure a match for Beatrice before the end of the Season. If the younger sister is settled before the elder, the ton will decide there is something wrong with me, and they will not be quiet about it. It will follow the girls for years.”

“Mm.” Abigail let herself be diverted, though not entirely. “Well, heaven help the man who takes on Beatrice, in any event. He will need the patience of a saint and the hearing of a post.”

“He will need to enjoy losing arguments.”

“Nightly. For the rest of his life.” Abigail’s scowl broke into a helpless grin.

Rosaline caught it, and the two of them laughed together in the middle of the crowd, and for a moment it was easy.

“Lady Rosaline. Lady Abigail.” A voice at her shoulder, warm and eager. Lord Bracewell had appeared with Beatrice in tow, having evidently collected her on his way over, and he bowed to them both with great ceremony. “I had hoped you would both be here. Lady Rosaline, might I have the honor of the next dance? If it is not already taken.”

Abigail beamed at her with frank encouragement.

“You may, My Lord.” Rosaline offered him her dance card, and he wrote his name on it with a small flourish. She let her lashes lower and lift the way she had been taught. “I confess I hoped you would ask.”

Bracewell went pink with pleasure, took her hand, and led her out onto the dance floor as the musicians struck up a tune.

She was good at this now. She held Bracewell’s eyes a beat too long and watched him forget his footing. She asked a question that let him talk and made him feel clever for the answer. She was present in her body the way she had been taught, and Bracewell was helplessly charmed.

It was working, all of it.

And then she felt it, the weight of a particular gaze, and glanced over Bracewell’s shoulder to the edge of the floor. There stood Magnus, watching her turn in another man’s arms.

A shiver ran straight down her spine, settling low. She nearly lost her step.

“Lady Rosaline?” Bracewell frowned.

“Forgive me, My Lord.” She brought her eyes back to his, smiling. “You were saying about your hunters…”

Magnus was going to break the glass in his hand. He could feel the stem beginning to crack.

Across the floor, Bracewell had his hand on Rosaline’s waist, and the look of a man handed the deed to heaven. Rosaline was smiling up at him and doing everything Magnus had taught her, in a wine-red gown he had all but dared her into. All for the benefit of a soft, plump viscount who did not deserve to breathe the same air.