A Duke and A Damsel

A Duke and A Damsel--Chapter 33

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A Duke and A Damsel

Chapter 33

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Horace Milleboone liked nothing more than to see young, popular members of the ton ruined. After all, it was the ton's fault he was trapped in this loveless marriage with Magdalene. He found great satisfaction in seeing it happen to others too.

Horace literally clapped his hands and squealed in glee as he sat at the breakfast table reading over the banns posted in that morning's London Daily Gazette. By now, all of the ton would have heard about Emma Sheridan and Blake Carstairs being first cousins thanks to him and Magdalene. They had spent all of the previous evening at the masquerade telling everyone they possibly could about that night on the balcony. He hoped that weird, warped versions of the story were now circulating about the ton too.

He leaned back in his armchair and thought back to his own bachelor days. He had been quite the wallflower. While all his peers had been happily gambling and flirting with the ladies, he had stood around and watched. No one had ever paid attention to him or sought him out. When he had asked the ladies to dance, on the rare occasion that he mustered up the courage, they would reluctantly say yes out of politeness and come up with some excuse or another to end the dance early. He could never figure out what was wrong with him, why no one found him appealing.

Four years ago, this question had magnified when he'd spied Henrietta Wakefield for the first time at Almack's one warm Wednesday night. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, with hair the color of gold, a complexion so fair he was sure every other woman was seething with envy, and eyes bluer than the color of the sky on a clear day. She was perfection.

He watched her for weeks, feeling exalted every time her eyes swept over him as she scanned the crowd for someone she knew, stabs of jealousy every time she got too close to some lord or the other, despondent when he realized there was no prospect of them ever being together. Still, he couldn't get enough of her and for once was glad of his wallflower status because no one questioned him.

After about a month, he finally gathered up the courage to speak to her one evening at Almack's. He had made sure he was in his best evening attire and that what little hair he had was combed down to the best of his ability. Keeping close tabs on her whereabouts that night, he seized the opportunity to approach her while she was getting some lemonade from the refreshment table and none of her usual entourage of ladies were twittering about.

“Good evening, Miss Wakefield,” he had managed to get out, proud of himself for not stuttering despite his nervousness.

“Oh, good. This lemonade could use a bit more sugar. Go fetch some from the kitchen, and be quick about it.”