He hated balls. Well and truly hated them.
There may have been a time in his youth when he looked forward to such an event, to dance and flirt with all the pretty young misses, to tease and shock all the staid matrons, but what ever joy he might have once found in such activities had disappeared long ago under the onslaught of matchmaking mamas, simpering debutantes, and toad-eating idiots, each and every one of them enthralled with his title and wealth without having the slightest idea of who he was or what he did.
Having people trip over themselves to please you is a grand thing indeed at the age of ten; at twenty, it’s amusing; by thirty, it’s embarrassing and offensive. Admittedly, there were some exceptions to the rule. There were people, like Mrs. Peabody, who remained singularly unimpressed with the notion that an individual’s finest attributes could be accomplished at birth. Alex’s close friends were similarly uninterested in his title, unless they could somehow work it into a joke at his expense.
And now Sophie. The British miss in her automatically relied on proper decorum when dealing with a peer of the realm, but with the right encouragement, that facade slipped away to reveal an opinionated and, he rather fancied, passionate woman.
To night, he was actually looking forward to a ball, and she was the reason. He wanted to see that woman emerge again. And again…and again. And he wanted to be the one who brought her to light.
He arrived at the ball fashionably late. It would have been a fair bit past fashionable if he had been anyone other than a duke. First, he had been required to change his cravat after dribbling some port on it in a very unducal manner, then change his shoes after stepping in a puddle on the way to his carriage, and finally to wait for a change of carriage after the first was discovered to have cracked a wheel.
He was a duke, however, and therefore quite fashionable regardless of the time he might deem to arrive. Arrive, he eventually did, and with a smile on his face. Even the eve ning’s misadventures had failed to dampen his good mood.
After a half hour of trying and failing, however, to locate Sophie, Alex’s smile had descended to a grimace. If one more bloody fool asked him where he had gotten his cravat pin…
“Why do you come to these events, then stand there looking as if the effort has caused you physical pain?”
The sound of Whit’s voice brought him out of his musings. He was behaving irrationally. Probably the girl had gone to the ladies’ retiring room and gotten caught up in a bit of gossip. He’d find her eventually. He just needed to exercise a little patience. He could do that.
Surely, he could do that.
“Ah, much better,” Whit commented in an exceedingly jovial, and therefore exceedingly annoying manner. “You were starting to upset the young ladies, you know.”
“Not nearly enough to keep their mamas away.”
Whit continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “I was beginning to fear you might go for someone’s throat.”
Alex threw his friend a quelling glance. “Don’t tempt me, Whit.”
“Speaking of throats, is that a new pin?”
To hell with patience. “Have you seen Sophie?”
Whit shrugged. “Not recently. I saw her step onto that balcony a while ago. Alone, in case you’re interested, but I’m sure she’s gone by now. Have you seen the imp?”
“Mirabelle? No, why?”
Whit grimaced. “I promised my mother I’d dance at least once with the little hellion to night.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you put aside your grudge?”
Whit looked genuinely surprised at the notion. “What ever for?”
Alex resisted the urge to slap the back of his friend’s head. “She’s an unmarried female with a drunken uncle for a guardian, Whit. She needs a champion.”
Whit looked at him as if he were a complete stranger. A completely insane complete stranger. “Are we speaking of the same girl? Brown hair, brown eyes, tongue of an adder? Because she has a champion—I believe he goes by the name Lucifer.”
Alex knew he wasn’t going to win this argument.
“Go dance, Whit.”
“Determined to find fair Sophie, are you?”
Alex nodded curtly. If she’d been in the ladies’ retiring room, she should be done by now.
“Happy hunting,” Whit chimed jovially. “I’m off to slay a dragon myself.”