Page 34 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

“I don’t know.” Emily shrugged one shoulder. “Only you can answer that.”

Whatever the answer was, it would have to wait. The musicale that afternoon was held at Lord Bartridge’s manor only hours later. The family had a long history of musicians, and both the viscount's son and daughter were accomplished in their own right. They would be playing that day, and then there would be the usual mingling, buffet, and games.

Rosalie had attended many similar gatherings during her Seasons and had never once drawn more than cursory attention. Today she watched matrons lean their heads together the moment she and the duke crossed the threshold of that grand Wembley house, their fans moving in synchrony.

A cluster of young ladies she had never once spoken to turned as one unit to stare openly. By the time they had reached the auditorium, no fewer than three gentlemen she did not recognize had contrived introductions to her that had nothing whatsoever to do with their actual interest: the man standing at her side and watching.

“I’ll admit, we have not known each other a good while, but you are more subdued now than you have ever been in my presence,” the Duke of Hartmere said, as their chaperones, Lady Poole and her mother, Lady Winthrop, were ushered toward the chairs arranged for the show.

“Being watched so closely is not a sensation I am accustomed to.”

“Watched by the rest of them or me?”

She did not dignify his question with an answer.

The musicale passed like most of them did, with music and applause. Rosalie was still reeling from her confession that morning. She expected to feel lighter now that at least one other person knew what she had enrolled herself in. But that was not the case. She could hardly breathe with the Duke of Hartmere sitting next to her, burning because she was so aware of his presence, his laugh, the gentle sound he made when he was impressed by the piece that had just been played.

In the end, games came before the buffet, during the mingler. Lady Penelope Bartridge, the pianist and secondary hostess, was clapping her hands and dividing the room into teams. Rosalie found herself seated between Lady Poole and a baronet’s wife she barely knew.

The Duke of Hartmere was directly across the small circle. His dark hair was different. She wondered if he had cut it. It made him look younger than his thirty-one years. It made him look⁠—

“Dear, the game is starting,” Lady Poole whispered, tapping Rosalie on the knee.

The game began with the loudest voices claiming the earliest turns. A young man Rosalie vaguely recognized acted out something involving arm-waving that the room eventually decided represented a windmill.

A young Miss Montagu attempted a scene from Shakespeare, because, of course, she would, with a name like that. Rosalie watched and laughed politely, but she struggled to raise her gaze from the carpet at her feet.

It was the Duke of Hartmere who called her out: “I believe Miss Winthrop has the answer. She is a scholar of Shakespeare.”

It was a shot in the dark that just happened to be right. She was surprised that he remembered King Lear in the library.

Every eye in the circle turned toward her. Rosalie felt the familiar urge to demur. “It is Romeo and Juliet, naturally,” she said. “Miss Montagu is Romeo scaling a wall in the Capulets’ garden... albeit with more restraint than Romeo displayed, I’m sure.”

There was a beat of silence before Miss Montagu nodded, and Lady Penelope burst into delighted applause. The room followed her, and Rosalie sat faintly stunned by her own daring, and by the duke’s observation.

It was late in the evening when the party began to break apart. Many of the Bartridges’ close friends were staying overnight, but the other guests were graciously taking their leave. Rosalie lingered in the antechamber while Lady Poole and her mother said their goodbyes. The Sutton carriage was being brought around. She stepped into the night air and made her way down the front steps. It was quiet in Wembley. The road was clear beyond the gates. She walked toward them. But she was not alone.

“Bartridge probably pawned the Sutton coach to buy himself another violin,” the Duke of Hartmere said, taking a tin out of his pocket. “You could drive home with me,” he remarked casually.

Rosalie laughed under her breath, watching him dig snuff out of the tin. Her father also partook. She hated the smell.

“You don’t approve?” he asked, smiling.

“Surely, you should not do that in front of a lady,” she joked. “If we were truly courting, you would not dare expose your baser habits to me.”

“Then you don’t know what it’s like to be truly courted by me.”

“Does anyone?”

He seemed to think for a moment, then clicked the tin shut without taking anything from it and put it back in his pocket. “Now that you ask, no.”

Rosalie gasped softly. “You’re playing with me.”

“I’m not,” he swore.

“The Duke of Hartmere has never courted a woman before?”

“Not in this generation.”