Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane #6)(9)

“Very pretty,” His Grace drawled. He palmed the box and turned to Lady Penelope. “But hardly worth your life, my lady. I hope you’ll not risk something so precious for such a mundane trinket again.”

He tossed the box to Penelope, who simply blinked, forcing Artemis to dive rather ungracefully for the thing. She caught the snuffbox before it could hit either the ground or Penelope, and straightened to see the duke’s eyes upon her.

For a moment she froze. She’d never looked into his eyes before—she was a creature relegated to the sides of ballrooms and the back of sitting rooms. Gentlemen rarely noticed a lady’s companion. If she’d been quizzed as to His Grace’s eye color, she would’ve had to reply simply that they were dark. Which they were. Very dark, nearly black, but not quite. The Duke of Wakefield’s eyes were a deep, rich brown, like coffee newly brewed, like walnut wood oiled and polished, like seal fur shining in the light, and even though they were rather lovely to look at, they were as cold as iron in winter. One touch and her very soul might freeze.

“An adept catch, Miss Greaves,” the duke said, breaking the spell.

He turned and mounted the stairs.

Artemis blinked after him. When had he learned her name?

“Pompous ass,” Lord Featherstone said so loudly the duke must’ve heard, though he gave no sign as he disappeared into the mansion. Lord Featherstone turned to Lady Penelope. “I must give apology, my lady, for the ungentlemanly actions of the duke. I can only assume he has lost all sense of play or fun and has ossified into an old man before the age of forty. Or is it fifty? I vow, the duke might well be as old as my father.”

“Surely not.” Lady Penelope’s brows drew together as if she were truly worried that the duke had suddenly aged overnight. “He can’t be over forty years of age, can he?”

Her appeal was to Artemis, who sighed and slipped the snuffbox into her pocket to give back to Penelope later. If she did not take care of it, Penelope was sure to leave it at the mansion or in the carriage. “I believe His Grace is but three and thirty.”

“Is he?” Penelope brightened before blinking suspiciously. “How do you know?”

“His sisters have mentioned it in passing,” Artemis said drily. Penelope was friends—or at least acquaintances—with both Lady Hero and Lady Phoebe herself, but Penelope was not in the habit of listening, let alone remembering, what her friends said in conversation.

“Oh. Well, that’s good then.” And nodding to herself, Penelope accepted Lord Featherstone’s arm and proceeded into the town house.

They were greeted by liveried footmen, taking and storing their wraps before they mounted the grand staircase to the upper floor and Lord d’Arque’s ballroom. The room was like a fairyland. The pink-and-white marble floor shone under their feet. Overhead, crystal chandeliers sparkled with thousands of candles. Hothouse carnations in every shade of pink, white, and crimson overflowed from huge vases, perfuming the air with the sharp scent of cloves. A group of musicians at one end of the ballroom played a languid melody. And the guests were arrayed in every color of the rainbow, moving gracefully, as if to an unspoken dance, like a cohort of ethereal fairy folk.

Artemis wrinkled her nose ruefully at her plain gown. It was brown, and if the other guests were fairies, then she supposed she must be a dark little troll. Her gown had been made the first year that she’d come to live with Penelope and the earl, and she’d worn it ever since to all the balls she attended with Penelope. After all, she was merely the companion. She was there to fade into the background, which she did with admirable skill, even if she did say so herself.

“That went well,” Penelope said brightly.

Artemis blinked, wondering if she’d missed something. They’d lost Lord Featherstone and the crowd was thickening around them. “I’m sorry?”

“Wakefield.” Penelope waved open her elaborately painted fan as if her companion could somehow read her mind and thus complete the thought.

“Our meeting with the duke went well?” Artemis supplied doubtfully. Surely not.

“Oh, indeed.” Penelope snapped closed her fan and tapped Artemis on the shoulder. “He’s jealous.”

Artemis gazed at her beautiful cousin. There were several adjectives she might use to describe the duke’s frame of mind when he’d left them: scornful, dismissive, superior, arrogant… actually, now that she thought of it, she was fairly sure she could come up with dozens of adjectives, and yet jealous wasn’t one of them.

Artemis cleared her throat carefully. “I’m not sure—”

“Ah, Lady Penelope!” A gentleman with a bit of a tummy straining the buttons of his elegant suit stepped deliberately in front of them. “You are as lovely as a summer rose.”

Penelope’s mouth pursed at this rather pedestrian compliment. “I thank you, Your Grace.”

“Not at all, not at all.” The Duke of Scarborough turned to Artemis and winked. “And I trust that you’re in the best of health, Miss Greaves.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Artemis smiled as she bobbed a curtsy.

The duke was of average height but had a slight stoop that made him seem shorter. He wore a snowy wig, a lovely champagne-colored suit, and diamond buckles on his shoes—which, rumor had it, he could well afford. Gossip also said that he was on the hunt for a new wife, since the duchess had passed away several years previously. Unfortunately, while Penelope could probably forgive the man his stoop and little belly, she was not so sanguine about his age, for the Duke of Scarborough, unlike the Duke of Wakefield, was well past his sixtieth year.