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The Duke, finally free of his son’s scrutiny, could go for short rides around the estate, praising the stable crews, encouraging the gardeners, making suggestions to his bailiff. When Carleton returned with his friends for meals, he could not help but note the healthy colouring returning daily to his father’s complexion, his better frame of mind. Carleton shook his head ruefully as he stared at his wine glass; at least some good was coming from this wretched hall.
    Carlyle Hall was magnificent. Lights gleamed in all the hundreds of windows, the silver birch trees along the drive were hung with lanterns and to the rear fairy lights twinkled over the causeway between the twin lakes. The carriages were lined up for miles, it seemed, but they discharged passengers four at a time at the wide marble steps. Smiling blue-liveried attendants were everywhere. Not one carriage door had to wait to be opened, not one lady had to pause in the hallway for her wrap to be taken. And flowers literally bloomed in every imaginable corner—garlands, wreaths, sprays—all mingling their fragrance with the ladies’ perfumes. Flowers, a myriad candles, the sound of the orchestra playing softly—all the young ladies were intoxicated before their first sips of champagne!
    The receiving line was formed inside the entrance to the ballroom itself, where the Carlyle butler stood to announce each distinguished guest. “Baron and Lady von Hustings, Lady Evaline von Hustings. Lord Ian Clarahan, Earl of Islington, Lady Clarahan, Miss Rachel Clarahan. Squire and Mrs. Jonathan Whitson, Misses Lorinda, Lucinda and Annabelle Whitson. Captain John Hildreth.” And on and on, through every rank of nobility up to prince, with a Scottish laird and a Russian countess there by luck, house guests of other guests, down through the rural gentry of squires and plain misters. Each guest was greeted with the same warm smile by the Duchess, who looked stunning in her gown of sapphire blue. The hem of her gown was cleverly embroidered in diamante, patterned to repeat the swirls of her diamond and sapphire necklace. Her hair was done up high under a tiara, set with one large diamond at the centre. Her blue eyes sparkled with the darker reflections from her gown, and her clear skin was almost white next to the blue, except for the blush of colour at her cheeks. Her charming smile was renewed for each visitor, through curtsey after curtsey, compliment after compliment.
    The Duke had been standing by his wife’s side to receive their guests but excused himself early on to host those already assembled in the game room which, he said, would be less taxing to his newly recouped strength than standing around half the night. This left the Marquis on his mother’s other side to bow over so many gloved hands. He was pleased at first to accept the compliments, on his mother’s behalf, of what a fine picture they made. Indeed, they were a handsome couple with their matching blond hair, his in curls, hers in sleek twists. He was dressed in formal black and white, with the exception of his waistcoat, which was a blue that matched his mother’s dress, but in velvet, with silver embroidery. The white of his cravat was interrupted by a diamond-headed stickpin, set with tiny sapphires. Carleton, glancing from the line of guests to the Duchess, was thinking that he could be content with a woman like his mother, if only one existed.
    He had started the evening with a confident smile and a friendly enough greeting to anyone he actually knew. As the time wore on, however, and an appalling number of identical-looking young women were paraded past him, his smile turned almost wooden, his welcomes to mere “How-do-you-do’s?” and his thoughts to those of desertion—or patricide!
    The young women all looked the same, he thought with dismay. Whose idea was it to dress every debutante in white or the most faded-looking pastels? It only served to make the brunettes’ complexions seem muddy