we followed Lady Helmswick across the foyer, pausing near the center to survey the scene surrounding us. We had approached from the opposite side of the castle, but a grand staircase dominated one half of the antechamber connecting three of the staterooms. Portraits of past dukes and duchesses draped in ermine spanned the wall leading downward over the shallow stone steps, with nothing else for decoration but a wrought-iron balustrade topped by a mahogany rail.
The ballroom at the top of these wide steps similarly trended toward the austere. The long, hand-polished oak floors gleamed beneath a set of chandeliers hanging from a vaulted roof supported by stone piers topped with flowered capitals. While in contrast, the room opening off the antechamber to the south was beyond sumptuous. I’d heard the duchess call it the Amaranth Saloon, and for good reason. The walls were paneled in silk damask the shade of violet-pink, as was the upholstery of at least half the furniture. The ceiling was painted to depict the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, while the carpet had been woven with large medallions of the family’s crest displaying a winged lion at its center. The same crest that graced the fireback in the hearth.
The third room, accessed from the antechamber to the east, was the state dining room. Gilded fretwork covered the walls and ceiling and touched every item of furniture. The southern wall was spanned by four large windows, each fit with custom panes of stained glass which portrayed the legend of St. George and the Dragon. However, the long table at its center was clearly the focal point of the room, its length covered in a feast of the choicest dishes, each so prettily arranged as to make them veritable works of art. Beyond this grand display lay a smaller dining room where people could retire to eat their fill of the culinary delights provided.
Presented with all these options, I hardly knew where to start. A dance in the long ballroom where a small orchestra played, a glass of champagne, and a bit of amusing conversation in the saloon, or a sumptuous meal chosen from the tantalizing scents wafting from the selections in the dining room. Gage appeared to be waiting for my cue, and he chuckled at the sight of my head swiveling left and right, trying to decide between the three doors.
He began to tease me about my indecision, but my gaze had arrested on Lady Helmswick where she stood speaking to a man in the entryway to the ballroom. He was dressed all in black, including his shirt and stockings, and sported a dark queued wig much like Gage’s powdered one, but there was something about him that seemed familiar. And the manner in which the countess leaned closer to speak in his ear and the way his hand grazed her lower back before she moved on, made it clear he was familiar to her as well.
He watched her walk away for a moment before turning his head to cast his pensive gaze over the vestibule. It was then that I recognized him, and the fact that the scoundrel so rarely wore such a serious expression intrigued me. Of course, it didn’t remain that way for long when he caught sight of us.
His face lit with irreverent glee as he strode across the chamber to intercept us. “Now, this must be the most devilish casting I’ve seen all night.” His gaze dipped to my feet. “Especially with this saucy bit of ankle you’re displaying.”
Leave it to the Marquess of Marsdale to be the first to remark on such a detail.
His roguish grin widened. “I approve.”
“Quit ogling my wife, Marsdale,” Gage replied with only the faintest trace of bite. We were both rather accustomed to his impertinent manner, and the more my husband let it ruffle his feathers, the more outrageous Marsdale would become.
“Yes, that’s your job,” I reminded him, hoping to divert the marquess from voicing whatever thought had made his eyes flash.
“True,” Gage replied, taking the opportunity to do just that by sweeping his eyes over my form.
“Ah, I see. Lord Ogle or something, are you?” Marsdale guessed.
“And who are you?” I asked, gesturing to his black clothing. He’d even managed to conjure up a black kilt.
“Can’t you tell?” He reached back, grasping the edge of the capelet I’d just realized was draped around his shoulder, pulling it in front of him so that he could leer over the top of it. “I’m the villain,”