Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 03] by Duke Most Wanted Page B

wearing a costume, Your Grace.”
    Yes. Well. Perhaps the sloe-eyed brunette, Miss Richpapa, would be more to his taste.
    “Oh, Your Grace, you’re sooo humorous!” Titter-titter.
    He’d asked her if she was having a nice evening.
    “Oh, Your Grace, you’re sooo strong!” Titter-titter.
    His biceps would be bruised tomorrow.
    Perhaps she was nervous. Perhaps she was doing what her mother told her to do.
    Or perhaps she was doing these things only when the dance took them past a certain brooding youngfellow who lurked next to a potted palm, glaring at them with hot eyes.
    Graham bowed out of the dance halfway through. He had no time to play out her game. On his way around the dancers, he passed the scowling boy once more.
    “Do you truly want to endure that sort of thing for the rest of your days, lad?”
    He moved on, but not before he saw a gleam of enlightenment in the young man’s eyes.
    Then there was Miss Catriona Shippinggold. She was an utterly charming pixie of a girl. As he danced, Graham felt himself relaxing and even laughing at her saucy manner.
    Perhaps . . . just perhaps. She was actually rather adorable and they seemed to get on famously. He took a closer look. Pity she was so tiny, for he felt a bit as though he were dancing with Meggie—
    Bloody hell
.
    “Catriona,” he asked sternly, “how old are you?”
    She chewed her lip for a moment, precisely like Meggie when she was contemplating a lie. Then she leaned close and whispered, “Fifteen, Your Grace.”
    He stopped in his tracks and removed his hand from her waist as if she were molten metal.
    “Mummy told me not to tell,” she confided, “unless you seemed the type to like that sort of thing.”
    “How . . . flattering.” Firmly he took her arm and steered her back to her procuring mother. “Madam, you should be ashamed of yourself.” He bowed to little Catriona. “I shall see you again, I hope—in several years.”
    She twinkled a smile at him. “Will you wait for me?”
    He bowed again. “Alas, I cannot. But I wish you all the best, little one.”
    Fifteen? Gah!
    Yet, eighteen, nineteen, even twenty seemed just as unrisen and unbaked to him. How could a girl that young even know what she truly wanted? What might she say in years to come when the naiveté wore off and she realized she’d been traded for a title and connections?
    No, he was abruptly certain. He didn’t want a girl. He wanted a woman, an equal, someone with her eyes fully open.
    So, was it to be rich widows then? Because unfortunately, the richest widow in London at the moment was none other than Lady Lilah Christie.
    SOPHIE STOOD AT the entrance to the ballroom, her mouth dry and her heart pounding, her silk shawl clutched over the gown beneath. The masque was another world.
    Sophie had been to a few balls this season, though she’d never danced. At other times, she’d thought the array of pale gowns and dark surcoats a pretty picture, gently lighted by gracious chandeliers of sparkling crystal—all very civilized and restrained.
    It was nothing compared to the riot of opulence and excess unleashed by the lax rules of the masque.
    Lementeur had warned her. “In costume, a virtuous woman can be a whore and a whore can be a princess.”
    It seemed as though there were a lot of virtuous women here tonight. Bodices were tighter, necklines lower, ankles—clad in stockings so fine as to be barely there—flashed coquettishly from beneath gowns that clung damply to curves rather than concealed them.
    A wave of heat struck Sophie’s face as she stood in the shadows just outside the doors. The clashing brilliance and gasping riot was already in full force. How was she supposed to make any sort of impression in this room full of luxury and vibrance?
    Then she recalled that she was not supposed to be seeing any of this. Turning to one side, she slipped her spectacles off her nose and donned her mask. Then, taking a breath, she willed her feet to move forward. One