Bryony stared at their retreating forms longingly. The cardroom was overflowing with laughing faces, the dull roar of their chatter audible despite the orchestra in the other room. It seemed like heaven.
Even if it couldn’t hold a candle to how she imagined the Cloven Hoof.
“Why are gentlemen’s clubs only for gentlemen?” she murmured under her breath. “Someone should start a gambling hell for women.”
Mother stared back at her in horror. “Never make such distasteful jests again. If you lack for entertainment, focus on your posture and your embroidery and get yourself married. That will cure you of too much time on your hands.”
“Sounds marvelous,” Bryony muttered.
Not for the first time, she wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to make herself unmarriageable rather than find some Society gentleman willing to put up with her. But how?
Heath was right that the thought of playing the violin for the rest of her life did not call to her. But perhaps she didn’t need to become a world-famous virtuoso in order to be unmarriageable. She could perhaps… run an alternative to Almack’s.
Of course, she had no funds for such a project. She’d used the last of her money to purchase the Cloven Hoof property, which meant she would need to sell the deed to Max in order to fund her own venture.
She shook her head. It was a silly idea. Though to be sure, almost any idea was better than standing around this ballroom hunting through fops and dandies for her future husband.
“Here comes Lambley,” Mother whispered in awe. “Straighten your shoulders. Smile. Don’t show your teeth. Don’t talk to him at all. Impress him enough to marry you.”
Mother scrambled away from Bryony’s side with all the discretion of a stampeding elephant.
“Miss Grenville,” the duke said, as he offered an impressive show of leg.
Bryony dipped an equally deep curtsy. “Your Grace.”
He affected a stern expression. “I was disappointed to learn you still have not accepted any of the invitations to my masquerades.”
“I may have given one of the invitations to my sister,” she admitted with a grin.
“Very naughty of you,” he said approvingly.
Bryony’s smile widened. Very naughty of Camellia. She had met her future husband at that masquerade. “May I have another chance?”
“Your name is always on the list,” Lambley reminded her. “I’m still hoping to win back my money.”
“Some hopes will never be realized,” Bryony informed him sorrowfully.
He laughed and shook his head. “We shall have to see, won’t we?”
She and Lambley had been friends ever since they’d first met several years earlier in a cardroom not unlike the one on the other side of this ballroom. Heath had made the introductions in order for Bryony to join him against the duke and his partner.
Lambley had nearly tumbled from his seat with laughter at the thought of a seventeen-year-old girl being any sort of competition in a game of cards.
Twenty minutes later, when every penny on his person had found its way into Bryony’s reticule, the duke had been forced to change his mind.
About women, about cards, and especially about surprise endings.
He had been fond of her ever since, although he thought of her more like a little sister than a marriageable woman.
Nonetheless, Bryony had failed to correct her mother’s inaccurate assumption that a few exchanged words with the duke might become the basis for future matrimony. It would break Mother’s heart to know that Lambley’s true desire was for Bryony to teach him how to memorize the cards between every shuffle.
“When is the next masquerade?” she asked.
“In a fortnight,” he answered. “Shall I save a place for you in the cardroom?”
She shook her head. “If I can make it, I will elbow my way in.”
He bowed.
