The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,10

guests from the ball. Not one of Sir Seymour’s relatives, though judging from the pained expressions they normally wore, their loyalty to him was perhaps less sturdy than one might have assumed.

“I’m sorry. I thought I was the only person here.” The woman shrank back. There was something intriguing about the movement of her shoulders. It was odd he’d never contemplated women’s shoulders before. Perhaps he’d simply spent so long contemplating everything else that it was natural to finally dwell upon them. She was shorter than him and appeared vaguely familiar. Perhaps he’d seen her at a ball before, though he was certain he would remember if he’d danced with her.

He tended to avoid the rows of wallflowers at each ball and the matchmaking mamas beside them. Though most of the matchmaking mamas had attacked him with the ferocity of eagles when they’d first encountered him, throwing in conversations about their daughters’ taste, symmetrical features that had been present for so many generations that there was no doubt they would birth babies with equally pleasing features, and various artistic and musical abilities. Now though, all of the matchmaking mamas seemed to have resigned themselves to the fact he had little interest in securing an heir. Having several younger brothers, some of whom already had their own children, rather made the necessity weaker. Despite his eagerness to attend balls, Colin had never courted anyone with much interest. Singledom seemed vastly superior to marriage, and Colin always preferred the more superior activity.

“I should leave,” the woman said.

“Very well.”

The woman continued to scrutinize his face. He hoped she wasn’t going to burst into a simpering recitation of “Your Grace.” When people said “Your Grace,” it only served to remind him he wasn’t supposed to have had that honor—his older brother was.

The strange woman tilted her head, and another glossy strand fell from her chignon. “What’s it like to be a servant?”

He blinked. Evidently, she hadn’t recognized him. “Exhausting.”

She emitted a heavy sigh. “I was afraid of that.”

He frowned. “Why ever do you ask?”

“I’m thinking of becoming one,” she said mournfully.

His eyebrows jolted up. “Forgive me for being presumptuous, but it strikes me that that is a most odd vocation for a young woman like yourself.”

The woman took a long gulp from her tumbler. “I’m going to lose my money after Christmas.”

“Indeed?”

She nodded. “My father said so in his dratted will. It’s all going to be gone. Gone, gone, gone.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Yes,” she said miserably, and she hiccupped. “Excuse me. I said dratted,” the woman said mournfully. “Dratted isn’t the most polite word. Er—sorry.”

“I’ll live,” Colin said easily. “Bonaparte’s army said worse things. The British army said worse things too.”

“You were at war?”

Colin nodded, bracing himself for some giggles about his heroism and some improper venturing into upper arm squeezing.

Instead, she gave him a sympathetic look. Her eyes were large. The dim light couldn’t reveal their exact color, but he didn’t need to see a color to tell they were appealing.

“It must be strange not to be fighting,” the woman mused.

“It is.” Colin stared at her.

“I thought my life would be different too,” she said, and her voice wobbled again. Colin knew when to be a gentleman, and he offered her a handkerchief.

She blew her noise noisily. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be talking.”

“I’ll keep it a secret,” he said amiably.

That was better for him. He didn’t need anyone to know he was here.

“You don’t have to,” she said. “My reputation will be ruined by the end of the year anyway.”

“You’re planning to bed some man in the middle of Leicester Square?” Colin asked casually, moving toward Sir Seymour’s desk.

She gave a harsh laugh. “You’re funny.”

He shrugged.

“I wish peers were funny,” she said mournfully.

He stifled a chuckle. “They’re not?”

“They’re the most dreaded bores. You’re lucky you don’t have to converse with them. Pigs this, pigs that.”

He ducked his head below the bureau, hiding his smile. Clearly, the poor woman had been speaking with Mr. Daniels recently. That would compel any person to scramble toward the punch table.

“I shouldn’t tell you this.”

“I expect not,” Colin said carefully, opening Sir Seymour’s drawer quickly.

He glanced toward the door, lest some angry chaperon appear, shouting compromised or some such nonsense. The more distance between them, the better, and the quicker he left the room...

Genevieve’s father’s name appeared on a file, and he beamed. He scanned the documents, then folded them carefully. He tucked the documents in his breast pocket, closed the drawer, and rose.

The woman stared at him. “Is it