How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(34)
“It’s magnificent,” Helen pronounced. “Truly the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.”
The pale dove walls were opalescent on closer inspection, as flecks of mica had been added to the paint, according to Grey. And the ceiling had been decorated with a glorious fresco—fat cherubs and svelte angels frolicking against a bright blue sky filled with wispy clouds. The wainscoting had been gilded, as had every fixture in the room. Though gaslight had been installed throughout the house, candle sconces burned on the ballroom walls to give the space a warm glow.
“I’ll have to thank your sister again for loaning us use of her home.” Helen began tapping her lip, no doubt plotting where to position herself to give the speech she planned to make to the assembled guests.
“She was glad to do so, and she’s promised a generous donation too.” Clary hoped Kit and the many others they’d invited would share Grey and Sophia’s philanthropic impulses.
“And I did mean what I said. You’re downright princess-like tonight,” Helen mused.
“Stop.” Clary patted the coiffure Sophia’s maid had spent far too long fussing over. “Do you want to take a bet on how long it will be like this before it all comes tumbling down?”
“Your dress is too pretty for anyone to notice.”
“Thank you.” Unwilling to spend more money at the modiste, Clary had altered and embellished her favorite purple gown, taking the tight-sleeved bodice apart to create one that left her arms and shoulders bare, except for a dark purple cluster of velvet rosettes that served as straps. “These are the worst part.” Clary tugged at the long white gloves Sophia had loaned her. On Sophia’s slim arms, they sat precisely as intended, but Clary found them gathering at her elbows and feared she’d spend the entire night yanking them up.
“Ladies, you look stunning.” Grey appeared at the ballroom threshold, utterly dashing in white tie, though his coppery locks were as disheveled as ever. “Clary, do you wish to help greet guests? The carriages are beginning to line up out front.”
Clary nodded at her brother-in-law and told Helen, “Mrs. Simms will show you to the drawing room after you’ve had your fill of the ballroom. You’ll have a chance to mingle with donors before the dancing begins.” She gave Helen’s hand an encouraging squeeze and followed Grey into the entryway.
“Don’t be afraid to speak of money tonight,” he said as he led her to the door. “We aristocrats can be odd about lucre. I suspect your father’s etiquette books claim the topic is unfit for polite society, but name a sum that Lord and Lady So-and-So donated, and the others will be desperate to outdo them.”
Clary grinned up at him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’ll help, of course.” He sniffed in mock haughtiness. “I can be very persuasive. Just ask your sister.”
On the verge of nudging him playfully with her elbow, Clary’s breath snagged in her throat.
Gabriel Adamson stood on the threshold, waiting as a footman took his companion’s wrap. The lady was the same who’d visited him at the offices—Miss Morgan—and she gazed at Gabriel as if he were Prince Charming in the flesh.
When he noticed Clary, his body jerked as if he’d been shocked by an electric current. Their gazes locked.
“He’s the one from the office, isn’t he?” Grey asked as they paused halfway down the hall.
“The ruler of Ruthven’s,” Clary said when she caught her breath. “That’s what the clerks call him.”
“Is he as awful as everyone says?” Grey teased.
“Worse,” Clary rasped as Gabriel approached with Miss Morgan on his arm.
“Welcome to Stanhope House,” Grey boomed in his gregarious way. “You’re Adamson, the ruler of Ruthven’s, so I hear.” He winked at Clary, who concentrated all her energy on keeping her cheeks from turning as pink as the roses overflowing in tall vases near the door.
After formal introductions, Clary offered her hand to the young lady. She looked rather bereft, clinging to Gabriel’s arm as if she didn’t wish to get lost. “Miss Morgan, we’ve yet to meet, though I saw you when you visited Ruthven’s.”
“Miss Ruthven, of course. Gabriel mentioned you during the carriage ride over,” Miss Morgan said softly.
“Did he indeed?” Clary cast him a quick glance. Oh, to be a fly on the wall of that carriage and know how he’d described her.
“How enterprising you are to wish to work for your family’s publishing business,” Miss Morgan said, though she emphasized enterprising as if she didn’t intend the word as a compliment. “I cannot imagine throwing myself into employment or attending to the workaday world as gentlemen do.”
She was perfectly polite. Soft and gentle in manner and speech. And whether by intention or accident, she’d neatly emphasized that she was everything Clary was not and didn’t wish to be.
“May I lead you to the drawing room?” Clary struggled to sound cheerful, but even she could hear how her pitch had turned brittle. As she strode ahead to lead them, there was no relief in having Gabriel at her back. Thoughts of the other time he’d been behind her came to mind. He wasn’t close enough for her to feel his breath against her nape, but some ridiculous part of her wished he was.