Page 30 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

“Not thinking much, hurrah. I am merely admiring my aunt’s success.” Gabriel gestured lazily at the garden with his glass in hand. Elisabeth’s string quartet was playing something funny by the bower. A good chunk of London had appeared on his lawn, his aunt moving through the crowd lightly. “Don’t you think she has not looked this well in a year?”

“No, you’re right.” James agreed, softer now. “She looks worryingly well.”

“Why must you qualify things in that way?” Gabriel said, arching a brow. The glass of lemonade was cold through the fabric of his glove. It was unseasonably warm and humid. “My thinking is concerning. My aunt’s happiness is worrying.”

“Change is often concerning and worrying.”

“Ha! I see.”

They stood a while in companionable silence, and Gabriel let his eyes drift without intention to the far corner of the lawn—where the Winthrop women had settled themselves near the hedge, surrounded by a group of gentlemen.

Rosalie was laughing at something her mother had said. She wore a pale, sunny yellow dress, a selection of auburn curls loose beneath a simple bonnet.

Sinclair did not feature in the knot of young gentlemen who had gathered near her. No, Sinclair stood a little apart, in conversation with her father. But three or four other men—even some elder sons of families Gabriel recognized—competed with varying degrees of subtlety for her attention. And Good God, she was sparse with it.

Something ugly and unfamiliar moved through his chest at the sight.

James sighed. “Shall I ask now how this came to be, or would you rather I ask you later?”

“Concerning, worrying...”

“Shush. I knew something was amiss when I caught you cornering the young woman at Gunter’s some weeks back. But at the time I figured you were merely playing with her. No one here knows it yet, but it won’t take long for them to learn. You and Miss Winthrop are courting. Why?”

“For the purpose of courting.”

“You are not nearly as funny as you think you are. And you are not subtle either.” James followed his gaze toward the Winthrop party and made a small considering sound. “I suppose she is having a good afternoon, despite everything. Tiffany tells me her newfound popularity could not have been predicted even by the Mayans.”

“She is not that popular.”

“She is popular enough that she might need to start fending them off with a stick. There is Mr. Sinclair at least, isn’t there? Aye, Tiffany is keeping me updated, somewhat against my will.” He tutted. “Why would you throw your hat in for her when she is already spoken for? I do not understand.”

“Well, we need not tell each other everything, brother,” Gabriel said sharply. “How long were you hunting Miss Warwick before you told me, hm?”

Gabriel set down his glass before he had entirely decided to move and crossed the lawn toward her with a hurried stride he had not intended. He arrived just as Lord Apether’s third son was attempting some jest about the music.

“There you are, Miss Winthrop,” Gabriel declared as he arrived, pushing past two gentlemen. He was gratified to watch the rest of the young men part around him. “How I have been searching for you far and wide,” he said flatly.

“Your Grace,” she said politely but after a beat. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

He wanted to tell her that it was no pleasure at all to see her collect desperate young men like children collecting seashells, to be cast away once their holiday was over. Instead, he satisfied himself with, “You and I should dance.”

She blinked and looked at her mother. “But there is no one dancing and no cards.”

“There is room and intent.” He narrowed his eyes and extended his arm. “Come now, Miss Winthrop. They will be setting up for the next piece soon.”

Her lips parted in surprise, but she quickly pressed them together. Thrusting her glass into the hand of one of the nearby suitors, she took his arm and allowed herself to be dragged over to the empty middle section of the party grounds. Almost immediately, other guests noticed them. What followed was clapping and a scramble to find partners.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of teal fabric—his aunt moving to tell the quartet to play something worth dancing to.

“You have said little more than hello to me this afternoon,” Rosalie said, smiling for the benefit of those watching but not for him. “That is not how courtships go.”

“As if you would know,” he let slip.

Her face flashed with fury. Before he could apologize, the music started. Rosalie responded by stomping hard but discreetly enough on the toe of his boot. He gritted his teeth and turned from her to begin their dance. A line of couples had formed with shocking speed for a reel.

He held out his hand before she could harm him further. She took it and let him draw her into the first moves. It was not, strictly speaking, good dancing. He had not danced properly in months, and he let Rosalie decide on the nature of the reel. It took maybe four or five bars for the rest of the couples to follow, laughing at the absurdity of the moment. The sun came down hard. Within minutes, half the lawn had abandoned its cups to dance on grass that was entirely unsuited to the purpose.

To his surprise, Rosalie was soon laughing. They were dancing with other people by then, and he tried to find her in the crowd. The sounds came out breathless and happy. There was the flash of her bonnet as she struggled to catch it. She was still laughing when she returned to him.