ESP 44

chapter 44

As soon as her dance with Duke Byron ended, Briony found herself face-to-face with a line of young men waiting eagerly to ask her for the next dance. Among them was the dark-haired viscount who had just danced with Lady Adelaine Charleston, and the blond marquis whom Crissida had dismissed earlier, saying his looks were unbearable.
Her eyes searched past them.

…Keith wasn’t there.

In truth, she had only overheard Duke Byron mention, “Her Majesty the Queen and Count Dalmore are dancing together,” but she hadn’t actually seen Keith herself—she’d been too occupied dancing with the Duke. And now, as if she had never danced at all, the Queen was back on the throne at the dais, chin resting on one hand.

…It must have been just a formality.

Because of “the Queen’s eye,” Keith had suffered greatly, and as an apology, Her Majesty must have offered him a dance.
That thought lightened Briony’s heart a little.

“Miss Arlington, may I have the next dance?” one of the men asked.

“I’m sorry, I’m a bit out of breath,” she replied.

“Then allow me to fetch you some punch.”

The men seemed ready to dash toward the refreshment table at once—but before they could, Duke Byron reappeared unexpectedly at her side.

“Miss Arlington will be escorted by me. You gentlemen should go find other ladies to dance with.”

“But, Lord Weardale—” the dark-haired viscount began to protest.

The Duke raised one hand, silencing him. Just then, a servant carrying a tray of punch appeared gracefully before them. The Duke took two glasses, offering one to Briony and holding the other himself.

“It’s cold—drink slowly.”

Briony downed hers in one gulp.

“…I was thirsty,” she said quickly, handing back the empty glass.

She had no intention of letting the men start fighting over her dowry. Half of them were only drawn in by her looks anyway—like moths to a flame—and even knowing that wouldn’t have changed how she felt.

“I think I’ll rest for a bit. You don’t need to escort me, Lord Weardale… It was a pleasure.”

She turned away. Few women could so bluntly reject the escort of Theodore Byron, considered the most handsome of the unmarried nobles—though, now that Keith Dalmore was single again, that reputation might soon need revision. Admiration and jealousy alike followed Briony’s back as she walked away.

“Of course, a pretty, rich lady plays by her own rules,” thought the men.

“Who does she think she is, treating Lord Weardale like that?” thought the women.

Unbothered, Briony made her way to the table laden with drinks and finger foods. Crissida had declared she wouldn’t eat anything until the ball, so Briony had gone without food all day as well—and she was starving.

As she was finishing her fifth mini pancake topped with strawberry compote, a polite cough sounded behind her. She turned to see a tall man in his late thirties.

“Good evening, Miss Arlington,” he greeted.

Briony recognized him immediately—it was Keith’s superior, the Marquess of Seymour. He lived in Fanshaw, and since she wasn’t sure what estate he oversaw, she cautiously asked,

“…The Marquess of Seymour?”

He smiled warmly, as if unconcerned with titles. It was a kind, easy smile that instantly put her at ease.

“That’s right. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? About three years?”

He was one of the few who had sincerely congratulated her and Keith on their marriage. But since he was her ex-husband’s superior, all Briony could manage was a polite, distant response. “Yes, it’s been a while.” She felt a pang of guilt. Yet the Marquess seemed unbothered.

“I imagine the gentlemen here must be quite a nuisance. Tell you what—once you’ve finished eating, would you honor me with a dance? Spending time with a boring married man like me should make the impatient ones drift away quickly.”

At the word “married,” Briony felt herself relax a little. The Marquess was someone Keith respected deeply—surely a true gentleman. And since he had a wife, he wouldn’t be the sort to trouble her.

“All right,” she agreed.

Even after that, Briony ate two more pancakes and drank three more glasses of punch. This pinkish drink was sweeter and richer in flavor than the one before. The Marquess glanced at the glass in her hand.

“Do you like liqueur, Miss Arlington?”

“Liqueur? I thought this was punch.”

“It’s liqueur. You shouldn’t have too much.”

Briony tilted her head back and drained the glass. Maybe it was the sweetness, but she was feeling oddly cheerful. When she reached out her hand, the Marquess smiled and led her to the dance floor.

By now, Her Majesty was nowhere to be seen, and the hall was still bustling with couples dancing and others searching for partners. The lights and the warmth of the crowd made the air almost stifling. As the night’s mood ripened, the orchestra began a lively, playful four-beat tune—a foxtrot.

“Do you enjoy foxtrots?” the Marquess asked.

“I’m not very good at it… but I want to dance,” she replied.

The Marquess took her hand.

“Then I’ll teach you. It’s quite simple—just sway side to side, like this…”

“Like this?”

“Perfect. Now just follow my lead.”

Perhaps one had to be a good dancer to work in the High Court’s administration, for the Marquess led smoothly and confidently. The tension she’d felt dancing with Duke Byron melted away. Dancing with the older man felt more like being guided by an older brother or uncle—comfortable, even familiar.

“…I was actually worried about you,” he said softly, “but you seem well, and that’s a relief.”

“Why would you be worried about me, my lord?”

“It’s not just you, Miss Arlington—both of you. My secretary and you.”

Ah, of course. He saw Keith every day at work; he probably knew more about their divorce than most. But Briony didn’t feel like talking about it now.

“I’m fine. Thank you for your concern. …How’s Keith?”

“Count Dalmore? Well… he’s had a rough few months,” the Marquess said gently.

“Did he ever tell you why he divorced me?” she asked before she could stop herself. Then she thought, What does it matter?

The Marquess seems like a good man—and Keith and I are already divorced.

The Marquess’s movements slowed. He answered carefully, “No, he never said. And I didn’t ask—it was private.”

Yes, their marriage—or what had been left of it—was private. And yet, not long ago, their relationship had been the favorite gossip topic in every courtroom in the city. The truth was, there hadn’t been much “private” about it at all.

“So… he’s doing all right now?”

“Count Dalmore returned to work about a week ago, so I’d say he’s fine.”

That sounded like something only the ever-practical Marquess of Seymour would say. And he was right—Keith wasn’t just fine. Two—maybe three—hours earlier, she had seen him looking not only perfectly well, but so strikingly handsome that it had left her even more unsettled. He’d always been handsome, but still…

‘You look wonderful, Briony.’

He had said that—and then hadn’t asked her for a single dance.

So when the Marquess hadn’t asked, she found herself replying stubbornly, though no one had questioned her.

“…Then I’m fine too.”

“Miss Arlington, would you like to get some fresh air? You look a bit pale.”

She turned, and in doing so nearly stepped on another lady’s gown. The startled noblewoman glanced at them, and the Marquess immediately apologized,

“My apologies—my mistake in leading.”

He gently guided Briony through the crowd and out of the ballroom. A few minutes ago she’d felt perfectly cheerful, but as they walked, a wave of nausea and dizziness came over her.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It’s just… so warm in there.”

“I believe you may have had a bit too much liqueur,” said the Marquess.

He gestured to someone nearby. A familiar-looking woman approached. Briony, one hand pressed to her temple, barely caught the Marquess’s words.

“Megan, could you take this young lady outside for some air? I think she’s feeling unwell.”

“Oh, the poor dear. Come, Miss Arlington. Take my arm—I’m Megan Seymour, his wife.”

“Yes, I know… You wore such a lovely hat in court,” Briony mumbled faintly.

Megan chuckled softly and linked arms with her. Tonight, Lady Seymour wasn’t wearing that distinctive Orlov-style hat.

“It’s chilly outside. Here, take my sable cloak—it’ll help. The cold air will make you feel better.”