The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(43)
William escorted Julia to the floor, and March’s tears threatened to spill at the sight. All she’d wanted for the last year had come to fruition tonight. Her lovely, beautiful sisters made their grand entrance into society because of Michael and his family’s graciousness and charity.
The duke stood beside her, then bowed before her. “March, by the look on your face, I’d say the evening is a smashing success?”
March curtsied in response. “Indeed, Your Grace. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my life. Thank you and your lovely family for”—she waved her hand toward the dance floor in a tiny half circle, offering proof of the magic of the night—“all of this.”
“You’re welcome,” the duke whispered.
The smile on his face robbed her of her breath. It resembled Michael’s smile, the one that left little doubt there was genuine affection for the recipient.
“May I have this dance, my dear?” he asked.
Without a second of hesitation, March nodded.
The last five minutes of her life burrowed into a place deep inside her and took root. She’d recall this evening whenever she found herself lonely or unhappy. Forever engraved on her heart, it would provide hope in times of darkness.
Though she couldn’t deny how lovely it would be if the night never ended.
*
After March had danced five sets, she found herself at the perimeter of the ballroom with the Duke of Langham. Needing a respite from the uncomfortably hot and loud crowd on the dance floor, she welcomed his company.
“Miss Lawson, I’d like you to meet Lord Fletcher. He and his family just arrived.” The duke waved his hand at The Earl of Fletcher, who politely took her hand and bowed.
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Lawson. I understand you and your sisters are newly arrived from Leyton.” The silver-gray of his hair caught the candlelight from the chandeliers above their heads. A little older than the duke, Lord Fletcher’s bearing indicated a man quite comfortable in the opulent surroundings of Langham Hall. “London is all the richer for your company.”
Immediately, Michael joined their group, and in welcome, the candlelight seemed a bit brighter in his presence. Her pulse quickened as she, too, felt the heat of his nearness. Everything about the night was better than perfect. To call it extraordinary was like comparing a tiger to a striped barn cat. With all her senses heightened, she waited for his invitation for a dance. Perhaps, with the heat in the ballroom, he wanted to take a stroll outside. To have a few minutes alone with him would make the rest of the evening pale in comparison.
The duke nodded to his son, then addressed her. “Lord Fletcher has an estate in Suffolk where he’s imported about one hundred Merino sheep from Spain.”
The duke’s comment with his sly smile made March immediately take notice. Merino wool was highly valued by the wealthy, but the sheep didn’t care for the cold wet climate of England. They prospered in the dry mountainous areas of Spain. Either Lord Fletcher was a dreamer who believed he could raise the creatures in England and succeed where other more-experienced sheep farmers hadn’t, or he was a fool. Either way, his sheep-raising methods would undoubtedly fail.
“At my family’s estate, we also raise sheep for their wool, though ours isn’t as fine as a Merino fleece. But we’ve managed to constantly produce wool of the highest quality.”
The duke smiled as if he approved of her comments. “Fletcher and I will soon ram heads in the House of Lords. He wants to impose a tax on all wool sold in England with the exception, of course, of Merino.”
March tilted her head in answer. The duke’s comment proved her theory. Fletcher was a fool. “My lord, wouldn’t that seriously threaten the sheep farming in our great country? The selling price of wool is already too low, and to put any additional financial burden on the farmers would result in dire consequences. In addition, wouldn’t it harm the growing woolen mills in areas such as Leeds? How much of a tax are you thinking of proposing?”
“A quarter or half a shilling per pound, Miss Lawson,” Lord Fletcher answered.
She stole a quick glance at Michael to gage his reaction. His normal visage had turned pale, and his brow glistened with sweat.
As the duke questioned the earl, she leaned slightly toward Michael. “Lord McCalpin, are you all right?”
He nodded, but she couldn’t inquire any further as the duke caught her attention. “What kind of an impact would a quarter of a shilling per pound have on your estate, Miss Lawson?”
“An immense impact, Your Grace. I’d be bankrupt.”
Before she could offer more, Michael whispered, “May I have the next dance?”
This was the dance he’d promised. Pure unfettered bliss pulsed through her veins. She could almost feel his arms around her. With a slight turn, she delivered her best smile. “That would be—”
“Of course, my lord.” A typical English beauty with a slight build and blond hair dipped her head and answered Michael at the same time.
“Perhaps a glass of lemonade before the start would be refreshing.” He held out his arm to the perfect English rose.
The young woman turned to Lord Fletcher, and immediately March’s stomach twisted into a knot. It was Lady Miranda from Mademoiselle Mignon’s modiste’s shop. Heat blazed through her. She slightly turned away from the couple to hide her embarrassment.