A Little Thing Called Love by Cathy Maxwell Page B

because he was so incredibly important, he was busy all the time, but she liked his mother. She respected Marcella and prayed she was half as dignified and good of heart as the Dowager.
    A knock sounded on the door, and Sarah entered the room to help Elin dress.
    F EW WOMEN WERE as energetic as Marcella, The Dowager Duchess of Baynton. She was ten years Jennifer Morris’s senior, but she appeared young enough to be her contemporary.
    The Dowager’s jewels of choice for the evening were her blood red garnets. They circled her throat, her wrists, and her fingers and stood out against silvery gray of her dress. In her white-­blond hair, she wore a bandeau in garnet red. She appeared queenly and gracious, as was her welcome for her dearest friends in the upstairs sitting room reserved for family. They were not alone. The room was crowded with Baynton’s relatives, some of whom Elin knew, but many she did not. The sound of the musicians tuning their instruments drifted up the stairs from the ballroom.
    “Jenny, you are radiant,” Her Grace said in greeting. “And, dear Fyclan, how handsome.”
    Elin’s father did look good. He might not have been as tall as his wife, but there was a presence about him that made others take notice. Elin had gained the exotic shape of her brown eyes as well as her dark hair from him . His hair, once been as black as a raven’s wing, was now silver.
    Surprisingly, the years had been unkind to him. He used a walking cane now and not just for effect. Elin and her mother both worried after him. He was a man who worked far too hard.
    However, tonight was one for celebration. Fyclan offered the duchess the kiss of friendship. “You are stunning as well, Your Grace.”
    Marcella laughed, an expression that quickly took a dangerous turn toward tears. She pressed a gloved hand to her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Fyclan, it is nothing you said. My husband had so anticipated this evening and to a wedding between our two families. You know how highly he thought of you?”
    “I do, and I miss his friendship daily.”
    “Yes,” the Dowager agreed and sent a sad smile in Elin’s direction. “And here I haven’t even told you how lovely you are, my Elin. You look like a young Helen of Troy,” she declared. “The pale peach of that dress sets your skin off to perfection. Your mother and I knew it would when we saw it, and I so admire the bands of gold holding your curls.”
    Elin blushed with the compliment. But before she could respond, the duchess said quietly, “You and Gavin should have been married years ago. I feel so much regret over what happened.”
    Jenny rested a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “My dear, it isn’t your fault that your husband took ill. The marriage could wait until he was better.”
    “But he never became better.” Again the duchess’s eyes misted over the loss of her beloved husband. Elin and Gavin were to have been betrothed four years earlier, but the duke’s illness and subsequent death, not to mention the challenges Gavin faced in assuming the duties of the title, had set back plans for a wedding.
    “I’m sorry,” Marcella apologized, taking a kerchief a footman offered and dabbing her cheeks, “for being a watering pot. I must stop this, or I will not make it through the night.”
    “We all understand how difficult it is,” Elin’s mother assured her.
    “But John would have expected better of me.” Marcella gathered herself with a sigh. “Here, I have not offered you anything in the way of refreshment—­” she started but was interrupted by the appearance of her son in the doorway.
    All the attention in the room went to him .
    Gavin Whitridge, the Duke of Baynton, bounded into the room with his mother’s energy. He was over six feet tall and had a smile that melted hearts. Dressed in his evening finest, he cut a figure that every dandy on the morrow would attempt to emulate and fail because the Duke of Baynton was truly that unique. That