countered, not believing any harm could possibly befall her. This was a private party, given by the Earl of Wessex. Only invited guests would dare to enter his garden.
Mr. Pengrove scuffed the toe of his shoe against the gravel path. “I really must insist, Miss Ellingham. Lord Dardington would have my head on a platter if anything happened to you. I am certain he would not approve of your being here alone.”
“Ah, so you believe he would be happier if he discovered us here together?”
“Oh, gracious. We should leave at once!”
Dorothea opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of the idea. Mr. Pengrove’s lips were set in a mulish frown. He was agitated, nervous, glancing over his shoulder repeatedly, almost as if he expected the marquess to jump out from behind the thick hedgerow and demand to know what they were doing.
She caught Mr. Pengrove’s eye and gave him a hard stare. He sent her a fleeting look of apology, yet his stiff posture let her know he would not quickly abandon his position.
Dorothea knew if she pressed the matter she would eventually win the argument, but it would take more effort than it was worth, and do nothing but increase her already worsening headache. So instead she rose gracefully, automatically brushing away the few wrinkles that had formed on the skirt of her golden silk gown.
Dorothea placed her hand on his elbow. “Since you are so very insistent, Mr. Pengrove, I find that I am forced to agree. For I must confess, your predictions concerning my guardian’s reaction are correct. And I will admit, I much prefer seeing your head on your shoulders, than on a platter.”
Carter Grayson, Marquess of Atwood, strolled along the garden path, enjoying the spring breeze, the twinkling stars, and the peace and quiet. He really ought to be used to attending society affairs where five hundred guests were invited to fill a ballroom that could accommodate half that number, but the truth was that it usually annoyed him.
Tonight was no exception. He had arrived late at the earl’s ball and planned to leave early, but he could not yet make good his escape. He had promised his father, the Duke of Hansborough, that he would see him this evening, and his father had not yet arrived. Hence, Carter was trapped.
He turned a corner and followed the hedgerow down a gravel path. No lanterns had been lit in this section of the garden and the darkness seemed to creep in, erasing all sense of time and place. But Carter did not mind. The eerie stillness and inky blackness fit his solitary mood.
He paused beside a fountain, the tinkling sounds of running water soothing his spirit. Fifteen more minutes and he would return to the ballroom. Another hour and he would leave, his father be damned.
The merest trace of a smile broke the grim line of his lips as Carter speculated as to why his father was unaccustomedly late to the ball, knowing there had to be a specific reason. The Duke of Hansborough never did anything without calculated thought, and Carter had several theories about his father’s behavior tonight. Each of them pertaining to marriage.
To Carter’s great annoyance, marriage was very much on his father’s mind these days. And when his father got his mind wrapped around something, he was more tenacious than a dog with a bone, refusing to drop it until he was satisfied with the result.
Carter admired his father, respected his father, loved his father. Yet he often did not agree with the duke, and on this matter they were very much at odds. Carter did not oppose the idea of marriage. He knew it was his duty to take a wife and beget an heir, and he fully intended to do it. He had actually made up his mind to find himself a wife this Season, but this would be done on his own terms. A concept his father had a great difficulty understanding.
Carter resumed his walk about the garden, his footsteps echoing through the balmy spring air. As he rounded another corner, a muffled sound brought his head up. He spied a man and woman locked in an embrace, their lips fused together. He turned his head away, but a louder noise brought it back around.
He squinted a little, then arched an eyebrow as the couple ended the embrace and the man sank to one knee, prostrating himself before the woman perched so elegantly on the garden bench.
Bloody hell! He had stumbled upon a marriage proposal. The sight made Carter’s gut clench. The night clouds shifted and a shaft of moonlight fell upon the pair, revealing the slight frame and somber profile of the gentleman. It was Arthur Pengrove.
Good Lord, what was the world coming to when a young, inexperienced pup like Pengrove took on the responsibilities of a wife? Carter continued to stare at the couple, suddenly feeling very old.
The future Mrs. Pengrove turned her head and he caught a glimpse of her features in the moonlight. She was very pretty. Delicate and refined. He thought he might have danced with her a few weeks ago, but was not entirely certain.
He believed she was somehow connected to the Marquess of Dardington, a fresh-faced, distant relation from the country who had come down to London for the Season. To find a husband, as was the custom with ladies of privilege. And apparently, she had been successful.
Not wanting to intrude on this private moment, Carter gingerly stepped off the gravel path onto the lawn and made his way soundlessly out of the garden.
The moment he reentered the ballroom, he began searching the crowd for his father. Instead, he located Viscount Benton, a handsome rake with a biting sense of humor. They had attended Eaton and later Oxford together, forging a friendship as boys that had deepened as they became men. They were alike in more ways than they were different, though Benton could be reckless in a way Carter admitted was almost frightening at times.
“Where the devil have you been hiding?” Viscount Benton asked.
“I was getting some air,” Carter answered, bracing his feet so as not to be shuffled from his position. It really was a ridiculous crush of people on the ballroom floor. Heaven help them all if someone yelled fire.
Viscount Benton stopped a passing footman and pulled two crystal goblets brimming with champagne off a gleaming silver tray. “Champagne?”
Carter grimaced as his friend offered him the goblet.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Benton intoned. “’Tis a drink for silly young girls, dotty old ladies, and swishing dandies, but the good whiskey is in the card room and it will take us at least twenty minutes to fight our way through this crowd. We shall expire from thirst before we reach the doorway.”
“I suppose I shall have to make do with it,” Carter grumbled, taking a long gulp. “At least it’s properly chilled.”
Benton nodded in agreement. “Lady Wessex might not have much sense when it comes to calculating the adequate numbers her ballroom can accommodate, but she certainly knows how to spend money on a ball.”
“Not skimping on the ice hardly makes up for subjecting us all to this insanity,” Carter insisted.
“If you hate it all so much, then why are you here?”
Carter felt his jaw harden. Benton was right, why did he come? To please his father? Yet he knew, and his father knew, that Carter would reject the woman the duke presented to him tonight. On principle alone, if nothing else. Still, father and son continued to play this game with each other. The duke made unrealistic demands and Carter complied halfheartedly, doing only enough to avoid the appearance of outright defiance.
“The
