Page 45 of A Virgin to Tempt the Duke

“Yes.” She felt Rachel watching her. “Yes, it is.”

It was. She knew that. She felt it clearly, the relief of it. Maura was safe, the petition was filed, the shape of the thing that had been weighing on her since the morning in the church finally resolved into something that was ending rather than going on. It was a large relief, and it was genuine, and she held it. And underneath it, quiet and uninvited and complicated, was something else.

Her mind began to race.

Derbyshire. The breakfast table, the single place setting. Percy on the garden step, moving down one. A corridor where a man told me I was not helpless, and I believed him. The nightstand candle and the nightmare I was not supposed to have seen and the way he said go back to your room in a voice that was trying very hard not to shake. A cold garden and the stars above the pear tree and his voice saying she went home, people go home, as if the world rearranges itself into sense when he decides it ought to.

She thought about all of it, the accumulation of weeks—small and not small, ordinary and not ordinary—and the space that would be where those things had been, once she was gone.

This is the plan, she reminded herself.This was always the plan.

“Anna.” Rachel’s voice was gentle.

“I am glad,” Anna said firmly, because it was true. It was entirely true, and she meant it. “I am very glad.” She turned away from the window and looked at her friend. “I am.”

Rachel looked at her for a long moment. “So am I,” she said.

“A ball feels horribly odd with Anna at home. Truly we did not need to subject ourselves to such an outing. We just went to the garden party,” Rachel started as they entered the carriage.

“We must keep up appearances, if we truly wish to keep her sanctuary a secret.”

“Yes, yes… but does it really need to be the Merriwether Ball?”

“I suppose not. But a ball is a ball, no?”

“Well, let’s be done with it.”

The Merriweather Ball was in Hanover Square, which was close enough to Rathbourne House, but they went by carriage anyway. Arriving on foot at a ball was the sort of thing that would be remarked upon, and being unremarkable was the purpose of the entire evening.

“Shall we.” Frederick said as he handed Rachel down from the carriage and offered his arm.

Rachel was bright and composed in pale blue, Frederick in black and white, both of them looking, he hoped, like a duke and his sister who had come to London for no reason in particular.

The entrance hall was already warm and crowded, smelling of expensive champagne and ambition. A string quartet carried from somewhere above. Frederick had never been particularly attached to ballrooms, but on occasion found them useful.

“The Duke of Rathbourne, and his sister,” he offered to the footman at the top of the stairs and followed Rachel in. “We are on the list.”

“But of course, Your Grace,” he said quietly to him before announcing, “His Grace, the Duke of Rathbourne, and Lady Rachel Bannerman.”

Four minutes was all Rachel needed. He watched her cross the room with a smile here, a hand pressed there. By the time Frederick had accepted a glass of champagne, he could not find her at all.

Somewhere in the middle distance, a woman in primrose was laughing, and Rachel was the reason for it. He had always been grateful for this quality in her. He had never once possessed it himself.

He moved along the periphery and took a flute of champagne. He found Wrenshaw near the east wall. Mr. Mark Wrenshaw was a successful merchant, and a man he had some businesswith. His eyes went to the door for a moment, where he thought he saw?—

General vigilance, he told himself.Nothing more than that.

“Your Grace. I had hoped to see you tonight,” Wrenshaw said as he approached him.

“And I you, Wrenshaw. The amendment to the standing contract. I understand the committee meets Thursday.”

“It does.” Wrenshaw said as he leaned casually against the wall. “I’ll confess I expected more resistance, but the language on entailment has been quietly revised. You’ll want to read the new draft before Thursday.”

“I haven’t read it.”

“I’ll have it sent round tomorrow.”

“Yes.” Frederick turned his glass in his hand. “Thank you, Wrenshaw.”