Page 56 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

“If you wish the Duke of Hartmere to desire you in earnest rather than merely admire you from afar—if it is him you want above all others—I can help you. Just give me the word...”

Eighteen

“Quite the turnout,” Gabriel said sardonically, as he entered the dining room beside Tiffany.

The baron’s poetry excursion had thinned the Wide River crowd considerably. Half the house party had gone along for the trip to Horsham, either because they were genuinely fond of poetry or simply unwilling to be left behind. What remained for dinner was a small, oddly youthful gathering: Gabriel, James, the Warwicks, the Winthrop sisters, and a further scattering of guests who had declined the Winthrop invitation.

Escorting Tiffany to James, Gabriel removed himself to find his seat. He was placed at the head of the table as always, and he was midway through an idle observation to one of his riding friends when Rosalie entered.

She looked beautiful, dressed in a luxurious silver gown. But that was not the trouble. She had looked beautiful before, countless times, in fact: in formal attire, in her riding habit, in her morning gowns, in his borrowed coat on a cold night.

Her appearance that evening was different. Her hair had been arranged in a complicated chignon, curled and pinned in the fashionable style he’d seen on the debutantes that Season. Pearls dripped from her hair in strings, and from her ears. There was an artificial color on her cheeks. Her gown was cut lower than anything he’d yet seen her wear. And she carried herself into the room with a deliberate sway that caused his eyes to move to her hips and then to her face in shock when he caught himself staring.

“Goodness,” said his companion, visibly impressed by Rosalie’s new look, his mouth hovering above the rim of his glass. “Miss Winthrop is a sight for sore eyes this evening.”

Gabriel scowled but did not comment. He tensed as Rosalie looked at him from the doorway and whispered something to Lady Howard, who had entered with her in a similarly grand evening gown. Rosalie circled the table slowly, examining their place cards.

“It seems we are neighbors this evening,” she said as she took the seat beside Gabriel. His companion promptly rose from his seat and pulled out her chair. She smiled and settled her skirts with an artful motion. “I do hope I have not kept you waiting, Your Grace.”

“Not... at all.” He found himself watching her closely. His companion returned to his seat and was swept up in another conversation with James, thank heavens. “Is everything... Are you quite alright, Miss Winthrop?”

“Do I not seem alright?” The smile she offered was well-made, but it did not reach her eyes. “I thought it was time I made a proper effort at this house party. My sister brought some dresses with her. A woman ought to know how to dress for her company, especially when the company is so... formidable. Do you not like my dress?”

“Why... I have never found you lacking in effort or fashion before,” he murmured, drinking from his wine glass to avoid staring at the wash of creamy skin between her neck and bustline. The wine tasted bitter, and he grimaced. “But you look lovely, yes.”

“You are... kind to say so.” She reached for her wine and let her fingers linger a moment too long against the stem, glancing at him from beneath her lashes. Did he imagine her gloved fingers trembling? An intake of breath, and then she spoke. “Am I to understand that we will be having our own poetry recital tonight?”

“That seems to be the plan, though I did not encourage it myself.” He set down his glass. “Who told you that?”

Hesitation flickered across her face, quickly smoothed over. “Oh...” She shrugged daintily. “One hears things.”

“Are you being...” He hesitated too, then persevered. This was Rosalie, who was usually honest to a fault. “Are you being purposefully mysterious?”

“No,” she said too loudly, then repeated it in a more dignified way. “It is only that... one might have heard a great many things at Wide River this week... or sensed things... I find myself wondering which of them are worth believing.”

Now, he was intrigued. “Such things as what?”

“Little things...”

“Such as?” he repeated emphatically.

It seemed she could not come up with a lie. He had never been so confused by her, and he found himself laughing. Rosalie looked unimpressed, and her vexed expression gave away the fact that this was a performance, even if it did not help explain why she felt the need to put on a show for him.

“Why are you laughing at me?” she asked.

“You amuse me tonight.”

“That was not the plan,” she said under her breath.

“What?”

“I... Nothing.”

“Miss Winthrop...” He glanced around. The other guests were seated and engaged in their own conversations. The servants entered with the first course, a white soup, and he watched them serve in silence, Rosalie staring ahead. “Why are you⁠—”

“Your cravat is... very nice,” she cut in.

He touched the silky cream fabric. “It is no different from my usual cravats,” he said.