Teeth clamped together, Bryony pushed her way through the milling crowd. Not because she thought she had any chance of nabbing a duke—or even achieving a formal introduction. But because if she had to listen to one more diatribe about why all the other debutantes were daintier and sillier and more romantically successful than Bryony, she was certain she would scream.
Nonetheless, she performed her part. If her only way out of a betrothal to someone horrendous was to bring home someone slightly less horrendous but still palatable to her discerning parents, then she could not afford to waste any more time.
And yet, the only man she could think about was Max.
He was so deliciously overwhelming. Tall, strong, dark, powerful. She could imagine just what sort of vices one might get up to in his company. A man that intense had a way of melting one’s knees, so that one all but swooned into his arms without any provocation on his part.
She had to remind herself that her investigation was into his business, not his pleasures.
“Miss Grenville,” came a breathless voice from over Bryony’s shoulder. “I heard the invitations to your upcoming family musicale had been sent, but neither I nor my daughters have received one. Could you please speak with your mother for me, at once?”
Bryony smiled and nodded, but there was no way she would be able to change her mother’s mind about who would be allowed into their home. Now that she’d been given a finite date by which to procure Bryony a husband, Mother attempted to limit the amount of competition at any gathering under her control in which Bryony and an unmarried gentleman might share the same roof.
The fact that Bryony would be on stage with her violin and not in the audience rubbing shoulders with the eligible gentlemen did not seem to enter the equation. Mother wanted all male eyes on Bryony and Bryony alone.
If anything, Mother considered it a boon that Bryony could not make a hash of things by opening her mouth and speaking.
“Miss Grenville,” came another female voice from Bryony’s other side. “What a lovely gown. Did I see that pattern inLe Follet?”
Perhaps. Mother’s modiste kept Bryony’s measurements on hand in order to send over whatever items her mother felt she should be cloaked in when forced to interact with Society.
“Who cares about my gown,” Bryony deflected, “when yours is by far the loveliest in the room. Where on earth did you find such a becoming shade of violet?”
As expected, the delighted recipient of this compliment immediately launched into a detailed explanation of the origin of the fabric, the dye, and the fashion plate the confection had been modeled after.
Bryony smiled and cooed in all the right places. Although she didn’t know an Ackermann fashion plate from a Godey’s, she had been playing this game for as long as she could remember, and could make High Society small talk in her sleep. Sometimes she feared she might nod off in the middle.
She’d been lucky enough to be born the youngest sister of the smartest, kindest, most talented siblings in England. Conversation with them had never been boring. She’d despaired of ever finding such a connection outside of her family.
And then she’d met Max.
He was clever and prickly. Antagonistic. Rough about the edges. He could not have intrigued her more. He did not scrape and fawn to her or anyone. He didn’t have to.
His overpowering presence was capable of cowering others. He exuded danger. And yet he used his power and influence to aid those who lacked resources. Secretly. From deep within the shadows.
He was a handsome, arrogant contradiction. ’Twas no wonder he fascinated her so.
“There you are,” came a jovial voice from right behind her.
She spun around and grinned to see her brother Heath and his wife Nora.
“We are heading to the cardroom to partner Camellia and Wainwright,” her brother informed her. “Care to join us?”
Did she ever! Bryony’s tight shoulders sagged in relief. Not only had it been ages since she’d seen her eldest sister Camellia and her husband, playing cards was the Grenville siblings’ favorite pastime. And an activity Bryony missed very much.
She reached for Heath’s free elbow. “Absolutely.”
A folded fan rapped down onto her spine.
“Absolutely not,” Mother interrupted, stepping between them. “You promised to dance every set.”
“I promised to dance every set for which I had a partner,” Bryony pointed out, and lifted the dance card dangling from her wrist. “This is the first break I’ve had all evening, and the set is already half through. Certainly I could at least say good evening to my sister—”
“Invite her over for tea.” Mother sniffed. “She and the earl don’t visit enough.”
Bryony gritted her teeth and turned back to her brother. “Give Camellia a kiss from me.”
Heath gave her a commiserating grin, but escaped with his wife before he too could fall victim to their mother’s machinations.
