“My father went missing in Belgium, and I accepted work as companion and secretary to Lady Claridge.”
“The authoress?”
“Yes.”
“You wereworking,” one of the ladies said, giving her friend a significant look.
Working was a cardinal sin in their eyes. To have been forced to accept employment was tantamount to declaring spinsterhood.
“And how did you come to be Warburton’s ward?” Lady Lydia asked, linking her elbow with Ana’s in a show of friendship that she’d never exhibited at school.
“My father requested it of him. On the battlefield.”
One of the girls clasped her hands together in front of her pink silk sash. “How thrilling!”
“His Grace is never seen at society events,” Lady Lydia continued. Ana surmised that she cared nothing for renewing what hadbeen a contentious school relationship. She was intent on news of an eligible duke.
“Tell us about him,” Lady Lydia commanded. “Is he thinking of marriage finally? I could certainly ignore those scars if I had thirty thousand and a castle in Surrey.”
“Yes, indeed, who cares if he’s no longer a handsome young buck,” one of the other ladies agreed. “He can take care of me any day.”
Not handsome? How could they say such a thing. They hadn’t seen him bare-chested, going a round in a boxing ring. They hadn’t observed him in a dark alleyway, intimidating ruffians into fleeing like frightened schoolboys.
“Those scars of his, though...” One young lady, with wide blue eyes, shuddered delicately.
“His scars make him interesting,” Ana said. They were a visible reminder of battles, of strife, suffering. Each one had a story, each one held his past and his future. She hoped he might open up to her someday and tell her those stories. It would bring her closer to her father.
And closer to the duke.
“If you say so,” the young lady simpered.
“I don’t give a fig about his scars,” said Lady Lydia. “What does he like to converse about? Surely you know that.”
“His speech is curt. He speaks in short, terse sentences.” But his eyes. Those gave him away. She saw whole novels being written in the gazes he gave her. “He was a cavalry commander and now he’s a member of the Thunderbolt Club, so I’m certain if you ask him about his stables he’ll be gratified.”
“Stables. Noted,” said Lady Lydia. “Why hasn’t he danced yet?”
“He told me that he never dances.”
“Such a pity. Dukes are thin on the ground this year, and my mama says I must marry a duke or a marquess, nothing less will do.”
“Ladies,” a deep voice spoke. They all turned to look at the intruder. It was Lord Somersby—the rake!
“Lord Somersby.” Lady Lydia swatted his arm with her fan. “What manner of mischief are you getting up to this evening?”
“I was watching your friend here dance with Chetwynd-Ellerton and thought that someone should save her from expiring of boredom.” Lord Somersby bent over Ana’s hand, kissing her knuckles lightly. “Introduce us, won’t you, Lady Lydia?”
“If I must. Lord Somersby, this is Miss Analise Crewe. Warburton’s new ward.”
“Didn’t I see you yesterday in the club?” he asked, staring into her eyes in a most impertinent manner.
Ana pulled her hand from his grasp. “I don’t think so.”
“I could have sworn I saw you.”
The ladies gave her curious glances.
“Why should I be inside a gentleman’s club?”