Page 27 of The Duke’s Defiant Love

She lowered her eyes, and glided down the staircase. Of course he was not here. The fact that she had nevertheless looked was her own fault.

"Miss Hartwell."

She turned. Tristan Cavendish, Duke of Ashcombe, stood before her with a glass in one hand and an expression that suggested he had already discovered something amusing.

"Your Grace."

After a moment, Amelia said, almost casually, "I thought the Bacchanalian Circle was usually present at these things."

Tristan looked at her. It was a very small pause. She noticed it immediately.

"The Duke of Ravensmere never really attends balls, Miss Hartwell. He considers it dreadfully tedious." Tristan said, with the mild, unhurried amusement that seemed to color everything he said He continued watching her over the rim of his glass with an attentiveness that made Amelia distinctly aware she had asked the question with rather more casualness than she'd actually managed to feel.

"I did not ask whether he would be attending."

"You asked whether the Circle generally attended events of this nature, when what you wished to know was whether Ravensmere would be here, which is a very fine distinction, Miss Hartwell, and one I do not believe fools either of us." His mouth curved, kind rather than teasing. "He is at home. He is nearly always at home, unless something considerably more compelling than an Ashworth ball drags him out of it."

"How unsurprising. I imagine a man who prefers books to people finds little to recommend an evening of dancing and lukewarm claret." She said it lightly, aiming for the same easy dismissal she'd perfected over a dozen ballrooms, and thought she'd managed it rather well until Tristan’s expression suggested otherwise, some quiet, knowing sympathy in it that she found far more uncomfortable than outright teasing would have been.

"Perhaps," he said at last.

He did not sound convinced.

Before she could decide whether to be offended by that or relieved that he had chosen not to further pursue the matter, Tristan glanced toward the card room.

"I promised Winterbourne I would rescue him from a particularly unfortunate hand of whist. I shall leave you to your admirers."

"I have no admirers."

"Of course not."

"Your Grace."

He smiled. "Good evening, Miss Hartwell."

And with that, he disappeared into the card room, leaving Amelia to stare after him for a moment before turning her attention back to the ballroom.

She ought to have been relieved.

Instead, an entirely unreasonable disappointment settled over her.

She had known Sebastian scarcely longer than three brief encounters, and yet his absence had acquired a peculiar weight tonight. She had no claim upon his attention, no reason to expect it, and certainly no business feeling its withdrawal.

More importantly, she could not afford such distractions.

This was her first Season. Her parents had been frank about that from the beginning. They could give her a respectable introduction to society, a few good gowns, and enough invitations to put her in the path of suitable gentlemen, but they could not afford to keep her in London year after year while she waited for something more romantic than sensible.

She needed a good match.

Not merely a handsome face or an agreeable fortune, but a gentleman whose position would secure her future and ease the her parents’ concerns. Her mother had never said it so plainly, but Amelia had understood. They were not poor, but neither were they wealthy enough for her to treat the Season as an endless parade of balls and house parties in the hope that something might eventually happen.

She ought to be paying attention.

She ought to be remembering names, families, estates, titles.

She ought certainly not to be wondering whether a particular duke had noticed when she entered a room.

And yet⁠—