Lord Sebastian's Secret (The Duke's Sons #3)(98)
She was as beautiful as ever. In a simple pale gown, her figure was a marvel of subtle curves. Her black hair was dressed in curls, wisps falling about the pale skin of her face, clear-cut as an antique cameo. It was a serene picture, until you noticed the fire in those cornflower-blue eyes.
“I was invited,” she added with a touch of familiar asperity.
“You can’t have been.” He hadn’t expected to see her again, unless he sought her out. They moved in completely different circles of society. The sight of her here was like running into his mother at a bare-knuckles boxing bout.
“Do you imagine I would push in without an invitation?” she said.
The snap of challenge in her voice brought back countless verbal jousts. She was inarguably, unmistakably, here. “I don’t think you could,” he replied. “I’m only surprised to see you among people you profess to despise. Don’t you have cuneiform tablets to translate in London? Or something?”
She frowned at him. He was quite familiar with the expression.
A sturdy woman in her midforties emerged from behind Flora. She had sandy hair, regular features, and a gown that proclaimed fashionable good taste. “Hello, Lord Robert,” she said.
Here was the explanation for Flora’s presence. Harriet Runyon was related to a great swath of the nobility, and was received everywhere despite a marriage once thought beneath her. No doubt she’d wrangled the invitation. “Mrs. Runyon.”
With her customary air of sharp intelligence, and of brooking no nonsense, she said, “How pleasant to see you.”
Robert’s refined social instincts signaled a whiff of danger, like the rustle in the undergrowth just before something formidable bursts out to surprise you. Which was odd. “And you, ma’am,” he said. He offered them an impeccable bow. “Welcome to Salbridge.”
Robert resumed his walk over to the group of young ladies. Lady Victoria greeted him warmly, as an old friend she’d known since her early teens. He set himself to entertain them, and soon elicited a chorus of silvery laughs. It wouldn’t hurt a bit to let Flora Jennings see how charming most females found him.
Two
“Do smile,” said Harriet Runyon.
Flora exposed her teeth. That would have to do for this crowd of lavishly dressed people who had all turned to stare at her when she came in, and then turned away again with cool disinterest. That was what they did, Mama would say. They turned their backs. Flora could almost hear her mother’s voice, retelling the story of her ejection from society after she defied her aristocratic family and married a poor scholar, a tale of fears becoming real and pain masked with truculence. All her life, her mother had assured her that they could expect nothing but disregard or snubs from the haut ton. That history had made walking into this room rather like stepping into the lions’ den. But she’d been braced for it. She knew how to put up a brave front.
And she didn’t care what they thought. She hadn’t come to make a splash in society. She’d come…her thoughts tripped up here and came to a stop over the fact that Lord Robert had not been glad to see her. Through all the months of their close acquaintance this year, he’d greeted her so warmly whenever they met, with a smile that was nearly irresistible. She’d grown accustomed to the welcome in his intense blue eyes, begun to take it for granted. She hadn’t known that until a moment ago, when she’d found it gone.
On the other side of the opulent room, he was surrounded by a circle of pretty girls, in gowns that cost more than any three of hers. He looked utterly at ease. He was making them laugh; clearly they found him charming. He didn’t spare her a glance. Anger, and apprehension, flooded Flora. Now that they were in his exalted social circle rather than her much more humble one, he meant to snub her, just as Mama had foretold. She’d thought she was mistaken about him, but what if she wasn’t? She’d had years of rigorous mental training; she was not prone to mistakes of judgment.
And who would believe, after all, that a darling of London society, and the son of a duke, was truly interested in the unfashionable daughter of a scholar? Of course, she’d thought that his claim to be fascinated by her intellectual pursuits was some sort of jest. According to everything she’d been taught, men like Lord Robert Gresham were nothing but shallow posturing, through and through.
And here came the sardonic inner voice that Flora both dreaded and appreciated. It pointed out that Lord Robert had actually buckled down and studied her father’s writings on Akkadian. He’d hung about her home in the dowdy precincts of Russell Square for weeks. He’d followed her from London to Oxford. He’d given her that melting smile whenever she encountered him. Until today. Until a minute ago.
Flora felt an unfamiliar sinking sensation. She looked longingly back at the hallway, wondering if she could still escape.
“Stop scowling,” murmured Harriet at her side. “Really, Flora. You must do better than this. We should go and say hello to our hosts. Come and meet the Salbridges.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Flora, this isn’t like you. Compose yourself.” Harriet moved so as to partly shield Flora from the other guests. “What is the matter?”
“I shouldn’t have come,” Flora murmured.
“Are we going to rehash all that again? Now? This is not really an appropriate time and place, my dear.” When Flora said nothing, the older woman sighed and quietly began to tick off points with the air of a woman who had cited them before. Which she had. “You enjoyed your brief taste of society in Oxford.”