“Are you sure?” Daisy held it towards her. “Selina, the Duke of Caversham! Only think –”
“Let me make one thing clear.” She remembered Malcolm’s smirk as he asked her to dance at the ambassador’s ball, and something flickered in her stomach – something a little like nerves, and not quite like anger. Something she remembered feeling many years before.
Selina was no blushing debutante. She knew what lay behind his sort of smile.
“If I did wish to marry,” she said, “the Duke of Caversham is the last man on earth I would choose.” She shook her head ruefully. “If he thought he would gain my friendship by writing to me uninvited, he is mistaken. Please, Daisy. Send the letter back.”
“As you wish.” Daisy tucked the letter into her reticule. “Now, which do you prefer for the baby’s christening gown? The white with a hint of cream, or the cream with a hint of white?”
4
Political power in London was as much about society as it was about the goings-on in the Houses of Parliament. Those who wanted to alter the course of the country had to see and be seen, to talk to the right people, to attend the right lectures, receive invitations to the right dinner parties – in short, to climb the slippery uphill slope of the ton’s affections to its peak.
It was an area in which Malcolm had always excelled. He might not have the iron-fisted authority people remembered of his father, nor the Duke of Loxwell’s reputation for steadiness, but given enough time to work his magic he could have the surliest of voters eating out of the palm of his hand.
Which made it particularly irksome when one of his rivals broke the unspoken covenants of their political conflict. Not only did it cause him problems in Parliament, but it made his social engagements decidedly awkward.
“My dear Loxwell,” he said, when they met at Lady Sturgeon’s musicale. Nobody was less dear to him than the Duke of Loxwell at that moment, but he’d be damned if he’d show it. He turned on his most brotherly smile. “I’m afraid we’ve found ourselves in a rather difficult spot.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the young duke, countering Malcolm’s smile with his trademark frown. “I hope I haven’t done anything to offend you, Caversham.”
Malcolm’s thoughts flickered to the letter addressed to the duke’s sister which was now lying in a crumpled ball in the wastepaper basket beside his desk. He would never know, of course, whether Loxwell was aware that Selina had sent back the letter unread. And Loxwell would certainly never tell him.
Best to focus on the problem at hand. “It seems that you have put your name behind a candidate for the by-election in the Twynham borough. I’m afraid that I’ve invested quite a bit of time and energy courting the voters of Twynham. That seat was once in my father’s control, and I had a man in mind to bring it back into the Caversham pocket, as it were. I am running an old friend as the candidate – Sir Roderick March.”
“Twynham?” Loxwell shook his head, the frown clearing. “You are mistaken, Caversham. I have no interest in having Twynham in my pocket.”
Malcolm nodded, relieved. “I am glad to hear it. I should hate for us to be at odds with one another.”
“It’s my sister, Selina, who’s taken the interest in it.”
Malcolm blinked. For a moment, he wasn’t sure that he’d heard correctly. Selina had been on his mind only moments before, after all. Had he been thinking of her so much that he’d started imagining he heard her name?
“Forgive me.” He cleared his throat. “Did you say –”
“Selina, yes. She’s throwing her full support behind the Whigs this year.” Loxwell shrugged, smiling ruefully. “I admit, there are times when I feel I am not the major political player in the family.”
“Lady Selina.” Malcolm’s teeth gritted together beneath his amiable smile. There were times when it was appropriate for a woman to have a name that sounded like music, and this was not one of them. “Well, that’s certainly an interesting development. Good day, Loxwell. Enjoy the music.”
Selina Balfour was never hard to find, even in a crowd. There was something about her that drew the eye, no matter which corner of the room Malcolm was in. Today, she was wearing a gown the colour of the Cornish sea in summer. A gold comb with turquoise detailing was nestled in her dark hair.
She turned from her conversation with Lady Sturgeon, her eyebrow rising when she saw Malcolm.
“Your Grace.” She and Lady Sturgeon matched each other for the depth of their curtsey. But Selina, unlike their hostess, did not lower her eyes, but kept them fixed firmly on Malcolm’s. A challenge? A declaration of defiance?
Or simply a warning that he was, once again, about to be brushed off as carelessly as she’d shake the dust from a glove?
He took her hand, though she hadn’t held it out, and pressed it to his lips. Selina withdrew it rapidly, mouth tightening.
“You are hell-bent on driving me mad,” he said. Selina’s eyes widened in alarm, gratifyingly enough. He knew she could only think that he was referring to the letter, and there would be nothing she wanted Lady Sturgeon to hear about less.
“Twynham,” he said, with just enough growl to let her know he was serious. “I was hoping my candidate would run unopposed, and now I find a challenger appearing with the Balfour name behind him.” He offered Selina his arm, which she took with a nod of apology to Lady Sturgeon. “Don’t you know you ought never to come between a man and his political ambition?”
Selina cocked her head sideways, just
