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Curious, Rose looked up at the terrace and saw a broad-shouldered young man standing on the top step, facing the crowd. He seemed to have just come through the open French windows. His hair was unfashionably long and tousled, the breeze plucked at his red-gold curls as if he stood on the bridge of a ship. Rose understood at once why people were staring and smiling. He wasn't dressed at all for a garden party. His long sleeves were stained with something gray and blue, and he wore no hat at all. She found herself feeling irritated. Whoever he was, he was clearly so certain he would be well received that he hadn't even bothered to dress correctly.
"The Duke of Huntleigh," announced the butler.
"My dear Alexander . . ." Rose's stepmother swept forward to welcome him, her brightest smile vying with her diamonds to out-dazzle the sun.
"Huntleigh!" exclaimed a lady nearby, and she and her neighbor glanced at each other. "Trust the countess to capture the season's roariest lion."
Rustles of excited whispers ran through the crowd like a forest fire. Clearly the Duke of Huntleigh was another desirable prize for the season's ladies to grapple over. Rose had met a few of these prizes-not for long, no one wanted to waste time on a former housemaid who did not even have a dowry to go with her new title-and had quickly decided that not even a hundred thousand a year could make up for a lifetime of having to make conversation with them over the tea table.
Rose glanced up at the Duke of Huntleigh again. He was just walking down the steps with the countess; his mouth curved into a small smile as he looked at the crowd. It wasn't a smile of happiness. There was something contemptuous in the way he waved away the footman who stepped forward to offer him a glass of champagne. Rose turned away. But no doubt everyone thinks his fortune makes up for his arrogance, she thought. Oh how I hate this world, where no one's smile is real.
