were overflowing with white lilies, the ten-piece orchestra placed in the balcony above the dance floor, the hundreds of lit beeswax candles shimmered and glittered off the mirrored surfaces.
Dozens of rooms beyond the main ballroom were also set up, awaiting the pleasure of the many guests. This would not, she was pleased to note, be an overcrowded, stuffy affair. The Duke of Warwick, or rather his daughter-in-law, Lady Meredith, had the sense to ensure there would be ample room for all of the four hundred or so guests that had been invited. And from the looks of things, not one person had refused the invitation.
The generosity of her temporary chaperones was humbling and Dorothea silently scolded herself for not enjoying the affair more. As a girl growing up in Yorkshire, she had dreamt of such a moment, though even her fertile imagination had not included cases of chilled French champagne being so casually served to the guests by white-gloved footmen dressed formally in blue and gold livery.
While standing in the receiving line earlier, she thought it might be necessary to pinch her arm to truly believe it was all real. If only her sisters were here to share in this moment! But Gwendolyn was nearing the end of her confinement and naturally not participating in any society events. And Emma, at sixteen, was too young to be included. She was languishing at home in Yorkshire with uncle Fletcher and aunt Mildred, no doubt bored to tears.
Dorothea promised herself she would write Emma a long, detailed letter tomorrow afternoon. At least that way she could share some of the excitement of the evening with her sister.
Dorothea’s thoughts were interrupted as a hush fell over the crowd. She turned and saw the Duke of Warwick was leading Lady Meredith onto the dance floor. Dorothea moved herself toward the center of the room, searching for the Marquess of Dardington. He had explained to her earlier in the day that his father, the Duke of Warwick, would insist on opening the dancing at the ball himself.
The idea of dancing with the duke had put a flutter of butterfly nerves in Dorothea’s stomach, but Lord Dardington had quickly explained that the only woman the Duke of Warwick danced with in public anymore was his daughter-in-law, Lady Meredith.
And since his wife would be dancing with his father, Lord Dardington thought it appropriate that he be the one to dance with Dorothea. It was a better choice, yet not all that much of a reprieve, for she found her temporary guardian at times an equally intimidating man.
“Smile,” Lord Dardington commanded as they made their first circuit around the floor.
“I am,” she muttered beneath her breath, girding herself to endure the scrutiny as all eyes in the room swung toward her. “Smiling so broadly I fear my face will split in two.”
“Now that would be something of extreme interest to all those meddlesome gossips,” he replied. “To see your face break in half.”
His lighthearted teasing eased her nerves. Normally Dorothea enjoyed being the center of attention, but she had been long enough in society to learn that along with scrutiny came the criticism. Occasionally warranted, but more often than not petty and mean spirited.
The two couples made a second, slow circuit of the dance floor and then finally the other guests joined them. Dorothea’s breathing gradually returned to a steady cadence as the polished ballroom floor quickly became crowded with additional couples.
After a few minutes, the music ended. Lord Dardington steered Dorothea toward his wife and father, and the four of them left the dance floor together.
“Ah, now you shall have an opportunity to practice your skill at coquetry,” the duke observed dryly as a gaggle of gentlemen eagerly converged on them. “Meredith tells me she is impressed with your approach when it comes to capturing their attention.”
Dorothea blushed and lowered her chin. In Yorkshire, she had considered herself something of an expert in the fine art of flirting, but here in Town the level of pretense that men and women engaged in was far beyond her talents. “I fear I have much to learn,” she whispered.
“I believe you are a quick study,” Lord Dardington interjected. “However, if you encounter any problems, I am here to assist.”
Dorothea could not help the skeptical look she gave Lord Dardington, uncertain how much help he could offer. More than likely, he would scare off a large number of her potential suitors, and that would not be much help when her intent was to find a husband. Then again, would she truly wish to marry a man who could not hold his own against an intimidating opponent?
She smiled coyly as the gentlemen clamored around her, trying not to be obvious as her eyes searched the group for one man in particular. One man she feared was not in attendance.
Carter Grayson, Marquess of Atwood. He had remained in her thoughts these six days since the Earl of Wessex’s ball. Lady Meredith had expressed mild surprise when there had been no note, no flowers, no call from the handsome marquess, but Dorothea knew this would be the outcome. She had no expectation of being pursued by a man of his stature.
Still, it had been disappointing to be proven correct.
“Miss Ellingham, I simply must insist that you allow me a dance.”
Dorothea turned and her eyes fell on the impressive girth of Sir Perry. His florid face flushed, he bowed as low as his corseted chest would allow. When he straightened, the tuff of pale blond hair that grew on the crown of his head remained over his eyes. Hastily he pushed it back over his scalp.
“Of course I shall reserve a dance for you,” she answered, hoping Sir Perry was not going to make a nuisance of himself. “A quadrille would be perfect.”
“I am honored.” He poked at the strands of hair that had again fallen over his eyes. “And for the second dance, perhaps a waltz?”
Dorothea inwardly groaned. She had been introduced to Sir Perry the second week she arrived in Town and during that initial conversation had ruled him out as a possible husband. He was too old, too self-important, and much too boring.
Still, she thought it cruel to cut him directly. He was harmless and it never hurt to have a circle of admirers. A waltz, however, was far too intimate a dance to consider engaging in with him. It would most certainly give him the wrong impression of her feelings.
She smiled vaguely in response to his request, but Sir Perry did not seem to notice. The sound of his own voice was the only thing he preferred to his meals, and he soon dominated the conversation. The other gentlemen appeared to be waiting for him to catch his breath so they could get in a word.
Dorothea’s smile widened as she appreciated the ironic humor of the situation. Tuning out Sir Perry’s prattle, she began to look about the ballroom.
Her gaze halted on one gentleman in particular and a shiver of awareness went down her spine. Atwood! She recognized him instantly. His broad shoulders were unmistakable, his dark hair brushed and gleaming in the candlelight. He was tall and athletically built; his midnight blue eyes clear, intelligent, and assessing.
Dorothea could not contain the sigh that fell from her lips. The marquess was what her younger sister Emma would call dangerously handsome.
Unexpectedly he turned and looked directly at Dorothea. Their eyes met and her breath hitched. He was standing on the opposite side of the room, and yet she felt the full force of his regard. His expression never altered; it remained calm, open, and pleasant. Yet she read within it an unspoken challenge.
A ripple of nervous
