Free A Dangerous Beauty by Sophia Nash Page B

door and willed it to open.
    “Well, I’ve placed him next to that nasty Miss Phelps during dinner,” she said.
    “Lucky dog.”
    Luc knocked on the door. “Come along, Mrs. Baird. Your audience awaits,” he said dryly. Damn all females and their machinations. Before the last knock the door swung open and his fist was left hanging in the air. She was wearing the same appalling gown.
    She cast down her gaze at his stare.
    This demure act was killing him. He could tolerate it in insipid females but deplored it in this woman who had demonstrated there was something hiding under all those layers of ugly false mourning. Especially since he had tasted what lay beneath her cool exterior.
    Ata nearly pounced on Rosamunde’s arm in her rush to escort her instead of allowing him the honor. He settled for the younger sister and bowed before her. “Lady Sylvia.”
    Luc led the foursome past the burnished oak railings of the upper staircases. Clearly a former shipbuilder had built this solid wreck. There was something about this manor that was magical and permanent. He had never cared where he had lived before, since he knew it was the people who made a pile of stones a home. It wasn’t until the last few years, when he had relinquished his naval command and insisted Ata and his sister joinhim under the primary ducal roofs, that he had ever called a place home. For now, that was Amberley.
     
    Candlelight reflected off every gleaming crystal and silver surface in the elegant dining room. Rows and rows of candelabra flanked the three long tables covered with lace, slightly yellowed from age. White roses intertwined with ivy graced the tables in honor of the wedding couple.
    When Rosamunde dared peruse the flow of guests, she refused to stop at any one face for fear of the looks of disgust she might find. There were at least a hundred guests gathered tonight to celebrate the upcoming nuptials. One thing was obvious. Ata liked a good party. The duke and dowager duchess abruptly disappeared into the masses when the butler claimed their attention.
    She felt so underdressed, looking at the colorful fashionable silk and satin surging around her. Her gown wasn’t in the current Greek high-waisted style. Instead it was of the last century, the aged muslin nipping her waist and gripping the length of her arms, a remnant of one of Alfred’s long dead relations.
    Suddenly she realized everyone was in the final stages of searching out their place cards and she was one of the last left standing. Oh, it had been so long since she had attended a formal affair, she had almost forgotten things that should have been second nature. She felt the burn of many eyes watching her make her way to the last open seat at the main table presided over by Ata, the duke, the Countess of Sheffield, a beautiful young lady who was the duke’s sister, and the beaming groom. The other ladies of the club had been discreetly sprinkled at the far end of the table.
    A short older man rose from his place beside her to help her with her chair. “Allow me to present myself, ma’am,” he said and inclined his head, “Mr. John Brown.” Before the words were out of his mouth the buzz of general conversation covered the silence.
    “Mrs. Baird, sir.” There was something about Mr. Brown that was very likeable. Perhaps it was the kindliness she spied in his unremarkable face.
    “Well,” hissed Auggie Phelps to her rotund fiancé, loud enough so Rosamunde could hear, “I don’t know why they were seated at the main table.”
    Rosamunde hoped she wasn’t blushing. Her sister gave her a halfhearted smile and widened her eyes a little at the sight of so many forks, knives, spoons and crystal wineglasses before them.
    Rosamunde shrugged slightly, placed a heavy, lace-edged napkin on her lap, and turned to the gentleman, dressed in clerical garb, on her other side.
    “Ma’am, I believe you and your sister are the only two people in the neighborhood I haven’t had the