The clock had long ago struck twelve, and Captain Damien Rathbourne, Earl of Coulter, had developed a ferocious itch in his left leg. As that leg had been amputated over a year ago, he had no choice but to suffer in discomfort. The itch, of course, was the least of his pains. Tonight, the small things festered: women fastidiously avoided his eyes; conversations politely fixed on the weather rather than his health.
Half-foxed and wholeheartedly tired, he longed to leave. And yet at this late hour, guests still arrived. The latest announcement — Countess Something-or-Other — was a disaster. Her orange hair was twisted into a careless bun from which strands were already escaping. Her gown was outmoded, and her figure leaned towards chubby. As she walked down the stairs into the ballroom, she slipped on a step, and crashed into a gentleman. A ghastly silence swept the ball; a woman tittered.
“Unbelievable,” Damien muttered to himself.
Lord Darby, who stood near him, cast him a shocked look. “Countess Fraser? She’s a goddess.”
Damien’s gaze flicked back to the Countess. She had picked herself off the floor and appeared to be apologizing, her hands gesturing animatedly. She didn’t seem to be a beauty. “If you think so, you shouldn’t have much competition for her.”
“Are you mad? Countess Fraser could have her pick of any man.”
“She’s an Incomparable?” Damien was dubious.
““Course not,” Darby remonstrated. “I can compare her to loads of girls. She just comes out on top, is all.”
“She’s an Original, then.”
Darby waved his hand in denial. “No. Originals are all alike — snooty girls who think that wit and insult are synonymous.”
“Well-dowered?”
“Penniless, if rumor holds true.”
“Blue-blooded?”
“Before she married the now-departed Count Fraser, her people were nobodies.”
“Connected to the grand dames of London society?”
“So far as I can see, the women all hate her.”
“She’s a goddess?” Damien frowned dubiously.
“A goddess.” Darby affirmed. “Not Aphrodite, of course. But a goddess of little things gone right. You can’t understand unless you meet her.”
Damien shifted his weight from one crutch to the other. After Vitoria, it was as if his human interactions had been amputated along with his leg. His cohort stopped speaking to him of sport and war, and gradually withdrew from him altogether. Damien was suddenly furious with the purported goddess. He had everything but his leg, and yet could find no one. This mysterious woman had nothing and yet charmed everyone. He suddenly wanted to prove that she was like every other girl at the ball. She would be wretched. Conniving. And above all, she would be unable to meet his eyes.
“Well,” he said, striving to hide his anger. “Why don’t you introduce me then?”
Damien felt every eye in the ballroom carefully choose to look in another direction as he crutched his way across the ballroom. He could move at a reasonable clip; Darby barely had to slow his pace. The little things, however, irritated. Young maidens magically waved to friends across the room as they registered his direction; they dashed away lest he should corner them. Men fixed their gaze on some far away point. Damien gritted his teeth and clumped along.
