THE ENTIRE ton seemed to have taken a desire to visit Yorkshire. Perhaps the prospect of attending a ball hosted by a duke under the age of thirty-five had compelled them to brave the slippery slopes. The servants had hung strands of greenery over the ceiling, and Celia inhaled the scent of pine. Footmen in crisp ebony suits and snowy-white stockings floated through the vibrantly attired throng of party-goers, carrying silver platters piled with delicacies.

Guests glanced approvingly at her gold gown, perhaps appreciating the puffed sleeves and generous compilation of glossy ribbons. She shivered. People never noticed what maids wore.

She strode stiffly through the room, wary of anyone recognizing her. Perhaps she’d never spoken with many members of the ton, but she was certain she recognized some people from having visited the family. Gentlemen flitted around the room, asking ladies to dance with them, and she strove to not make eye contact with them.

It was imperative nobody discover her lack of dancing ability. Maids were not known for receiving dancing lessons, and Celia was no exception to that rule. She’d spent any free time learning housekeeping, musing over the logic of numbers.

No, the best place in the ballroom was the side of the room, as far from the dancers as possible. She was thankful for Frederick’s family’s obvious love for statues, and she hid behind a David replica. Most of the men were loitering about the Venus de Milo replica on the other side of the room.

Where was Frederick?

No doubt he had all sorts of host duties to do, greeting people who’d be shocked they were attending a ball with a servant.

“There you are.” The duke smiled. “I couldn’t find you.”

“Sorry.”  She forced herself to sound bright. “I just enjoy this section so much.”

His eyes flickered to the David’s statues muscular form, and she blushed. 

“Come,” he said. “Let’s stroll through the ballroom.”

She took his arm, conscious of glances and whispers from other women.

Perhaps she’d never seen His Grace at a ball before, but she knew enough of his reputation to know he did not tend to show people favor.

Heavens.

She’d had plenty of time to grow accustomed to his handsomeness.

She knew his hair was a brilliant chestnut shade. She knew his eyes were a shade of blue that reminded her at times of the ocean and others of the sky. She knew he towered over her and seemed to be composed of an endless array of hard planes of muscle. She even recognized his scent and should no longer wonder at its pine and cotton tones.

And yet, where Frederick was concerned, every time she saw him she a surge of pleasure jolted through her.

She knew the feel of his sturdy arms pressed about her, and she’d traced the hard planes of his muscle when he’d placed her on top of him.

His normally calm face seemed almost...apprehensive.

Could he tell she was not at ease?

Guilt tinged through her.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Though she might know how to pin her hair up in a pleasant style, she didn’t know the names of the important people, and she certainly didn’t know how to converse with them.

Pieces of conversation drifted toward her, referring to unknown names and locations. They were discussing villas on the Riviera and castles in the Highlands.

“Will you do me the honor of dancing with me?” Frederick asked.

She wanted to.

But this dance— It was French and seemed to involve a great deal of gliding in patterns with which she was unfamiliar.

“I’m not a good dancer,” she confessed.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Perhaps a country dance later.”

He smiled.

For some reason he seemed nervous. Had he been so eager to dance? His gaze flickered to the corner of the room, and she followed it to—

She swallowed hard.

Lady Fitzroy was here.

In this manor house.

She was supposed to be wiling away her time with Lady Amberly.

“I have to go,” Celia said suddenly.

“Nonsense.” Frederick gestured to someone. 

Was he waving to Lady Fitzroy?

Perhaps he is simply waving to his mother.

The duchess was standing beside Lady Fitzroy. Likely chatting about her time with them, and...

But they thought Lady Fitzroy was her mother.

Likely they’re speaking about me.

Oh, no.

“I have a surprise,” Frederick said.

Her stomach clenched.

She had an idea what it was.

No doubt Frederick was about to present her to her mother.

Except her mother was dead.

And the woman Frederick would present to her...

She tried to memorize everything about this event, because it was certain to end soon.

The jewel toned dresses. The mistletoe hanging from the rafters. The scent of cloves and cinnamon wafting from the warm drinks and decorations. Footmen in ebony uniforms glided about with silver platters filled with the most delightful things.

And above all there was Frederick.

Who seemed to be getting much shorter.

She blinked.

He was kneeling.

Had he dropped something on the ground?

Perhaps his cufflinks?

She glanced down, but his cufflinks gleamed from his wrists, and his hands were not occupied with scouring the ground.

Instead something else was gleaming from his hand.

Something that looked very like a—

A ring.

Her eyes widened.

“Lady Theodosia,” Frederick said. “I love you. I adore you. You are the most magnificent, amazing creature.”

“You mustn’t say that,” Celia murmured.

“And modest,” Frederick continued, raising his voice. “Wonderfully modest.”

“Please don’t.”

Some emotion she couldn’t describe flickered across Frederick’s face.

“I love you, my darling,” he said.

The words were almost like a plea.

A plea to not break his heart.

Tears stung her eyes.

It would be incredible to say yes.

For a wild moment she even contemplated saying it.

She loved him as well.

But he didn’t know her.

He thought her an aristocrat.

He thought she would make him a suitable wife, when in actuality there was no woman in this room less suitable for him.

She glanced at the guests.

They’d all stopped their conversation.

Even the youngest ones, who’d been most intent on dancing, had paused.

“What do you say?” he asked.

This was the reason why he’d been nervous.

He’d been planning to propose.

Tears stung her eyes, and the gleaming candlelights blurred.

“What is happening?” Lady Fitzroy’s voice came through. It was loud. Strong. The woman would have made a wonderful stage actress in London, but instead she was here, in Yorkshire, in Frederick’s home.

And she’d witnessed the proposal.

“Celia Jones, what on earth are you doing at His Grace’s ball?”

“I—” Celia knew she knew how to speak, but she seemed to have forgotten every single part of the process. No words came to mind, and if they had, she wouldn’t have been able to speak them. Her throat was dry, her tongue seemed swollen, and simply standing seemed to require all of her energy.

Frederick directed his gaze toward Lady Fitzroy, which was easy to do since she was continuing to cause havoc.

Celia had assumed she must be somewhat athletic, given her trim size, but in all the years they’d lived together, this was the first time she’d ever seen her run.

Lady Fitzroy rushed through the crowd of partygoers, holding on to her turban.

“Celia?” The outraged tone in Lady Fitzroy’s voice was unmistakeable.

“Is that a pet name for your daughter?” the duke asked.

“She’s not my daughter!” Lady Fitzroy stammered.

And then her face reddened.

“But naturally she is your daughter,” the duchess said. “It has been such a delight to have Lady Theodosia with us.”

“Lady Theodosia?” Lady Fitzroy stuttered. “This is not Lady Theodosia. This is—”

Celia’s heart clenched.

Frederick was still kneeling, though confusion was now on his face.

“You should rise,” Celia said.

“But I’m proposing,” Frederick said.

“To the wrong woman!” Lady Fitzroy’s voice thundered through the ballroom. “This is Lady Theodosia’s maid.”

Celia froze.

The wind rattled outside.

Titters sounded.

“Get up, Your Grace,” Lady Fitzroy said. “Is this some horrible jest?” She strode toward Celia. “What have you done with my daughter? Where is she?”

The titters grew louder.

They seemed to blare in Celia’s ears.

Frederick’s face had darkened, she was unsure whether with embarrassment or fury.

“You’re not Lady Theodosia?” Frederick blinked.

Celia shifted her legs and shook her head.

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true.” Her voice wobbled, and finally the tender, amused glance on the duke’s face seemed to shift to someone else.

“It’s impossible,” he said hoarsely, and she remained silent.

“You’re an imposter,” he said flatly. “Tell me. Are you a thief? Is that why you took an interest in my work? Or were you merely making a fool of me?”

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head rapidly. “Me? Oh, no.”

She’d wanted him to understand, but this—this wasn’t her at all.

“I told you I’d never met a lady like you, and I was right,” he said. “You’re not even part of the ton.”

“I’m not,” she admitted.

The duke stepped backward, and though she knew the two-inch difference was mathematically insignificant, and though she knew his presence could not be attributed to thermal qualities rightfully relegated to the sun, fires and woollen materials, she could have sworn her temperature decreased with the same rapidity as if she’d been doused with a bucket of icy water.

“I didn’t mean to harm you. I-I thought you knew,” she repeated. “I’m just a servant. Just a maid.”

“Then you’re not a very clever one,” Frederick said shortly. “For you had ample opportunity. You had access to...everything.”

The word seemed to float between them.

He cleared his throat, and this time he lowered his eyes, as if speaking directly to her was an unpleasant task.

She stiffened.

“Or perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps you had higher desires than silver.”

“What do you mean?” she said slowly.

“I hope you didn’t think you could have a chance at my heart.”

Her eyes flickered up.

He gave a bitter laugh. “Because that had no chance of happening.”

She stayed still, as if the cold wind had frozen her into a block of ice. She wanted to leave. She wanted to run away.

For her mind was already working out what he would say.

Hearing the words in her mind was painful, and hearing them from his lips...

She shuddered.

“I’m a bored aristocrat,” he said. “You were...available.”

She blinked.

“I hope you didn’t take our kisses too seriously,” he said.

There’d been more than kisses.

There’d been lovemaking.

Clothes abandoned, and skin grabbed.

Potentially there might even be...

She shook her head. He’d withdrawn. That had probably worked.

Surely she hadn’t made the same mistake as her mother, bedding an aristocrat in a fit of imagined romanticism.

But Frederick wasn’t a mere lord.

He was a duke.

The most noble of Englishmen, who weren’t part of the royal family.

Since the royals were from Germany, that was just as well.

Tears stung her eyes.

She’d been so foolish.

She’d risked everything...for what?

Minutes of pleasure had caused him to abhor her?

Lady Fitzroy had been similarly appalled.

Her heart clenched.

“I’m so sorry,” she managed. “So, so sorry.”

The apology only served to transform his look of bewilderment to frozen horror.

“I-I should go,” she said.