Elizabeth stumbled away from the dance floor, each step heavier than the last, when a sudden murmur caught her attention.
Nearby, two elderly countesses were deep in conversation, their voices dripping with scandalized delight.
“Lady Abernathy!” whispered the first, her eyes wide with barely contained excitement.
“Indeed, Lady Greystone,” the other replied, her voice low but eager. “They’ve kept that gallery, the one they had to seal off after the last uproar. Indecent, they said.”
“You can only enter if you’re close to the host. Imagine that! Oil paintings filled with scandal and seduction,” Lady Abernathy said, leaning in. “A reliable source even mentioned one depicting a duke and a dairymaid.”
Lady Greystone gasped. “Let me guess, they wore not a stitch of clothing!” A soft giggle escaped her lips, surprisingly girlish for a woman well into her seventies.
Elizabeth’s curiosity was piqued despite herself.
A secret gallery of forbidden art?
How wildly thrilling.
And utterlyforbidden.
Her gaze flicked back across the ballroom. There, her stepmother was deep in conversation with a silver-haired baron, his eyes lingering a moment too long on Wilhelmina.
Elizabeth’s lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t like the way the man watched her sister. Luckily, Wilhelmina was fierce and capable. Elizabeth, by contrast, was aching for any kind of reprieve.
That secret gallery might be filled with scandalous art and whispers of sin, but nothing could feel worse than being paraded here like a prized possession: observed, judged, and weighed.
With a swift hitch of her skirts, she slipped quietly into the nearest hallway, the sudden freedom prickling at her nerves and stirring a rebellious fire within her. Her heart hammered not just from fear, but from a small, fierce spark of defiance.
For once, she breathed freely, unshackled by the heavy presence of a chaperone at her side.
And for the first time that evening, it felt like a small victory.
Chapter Two
“Apretty, gilded case,” Alasdair McCloughan, Duke of Redmoor, murmured, as he inspected the gowns, chandeliers, and jewelry.
For him, everything about the ball sounded fabricated. The choruses and laughter sounded well-rehearsed, while men walked around looking smug with wealth or pretend wealth while the women preened, hoping to be noticed.
Everybody who had met Alasdair considered him a handsome man, with his russet-brown hair and forest-green eyes. His beard was always trimmed and his posture impeccable beneath expensive, well-pressed coats. However, he preferred standing near a Corinthian column, away from the ladies and their exuberant mothers.
“Ye’d think with all this glitter, they’d at least manage a dram worth drinkin’,” he complained, as his eyes continued to assess the ball.
His unlikely but loyal English friend, Seth Curnley, Earl of Whitton, sighed heavily. He himself nursed a glass of claret. Alasdair wondered when Seth would finally finish the drink. He could not really blame him.
“This isn’t the Highlands, my friend. Here, people prefer drinks that are as dull and lukewarm as their marriages. And you can see how these matches begin right here.”
“Anybody here’s playin’ a part they cannae keep up with. Nae wonder, come later, folk will feel scunnered an’ let doon. There’s nothing but emptiness.”
“Ah, you are in a mood tonight, old sport,” Seth observed with amusement. “Do try to keep away from duels this time.”
“Ha! Now that ye mention it—if anybody dares ask me again if I speak English, I’ll answer them in Latin,” Alasdair declared, suddenly feeling a little more spirited.
Seth choked back a laugh, clearly savoring the rare moment of levity amid the evening’s heaviness. But the respite was brief, for soon, a group of young lords swaggered in, their false confidence inflated by little more than inherited titles.
“Your Grace, we hear you still prefer the company of savages despite your lofty title,” Lord Haverson greeted, a thin smile playing on his lips.
Alasdair fought to suppress a look of disgust as he regarded the baron’s son, one of those would-be fashionables who mistook privilege for refinement.
“Only when I venture south, or find myself at these balls,” he replied coolly.