“I will come with you and bid them a good evening,” Lady Philippa said, smiling at them. “I cannot help but like them, you know.”
So Lucas led her across the ballroom, which was already largely clear of dancers, in full view of everyone gathered there, to meet his grandparents, the Duke and Duchess of Wilby. The apparent implication could not have been more glaring.
It got worse.
When Lady Philippa offered them a slight curtsy, Grandmama reached out a hand to take hers and turned her cheek so that Lady Philippa had no choice but to bend and kiss it. And then Grandpapa moved over one chair and indicated the seat between him and Her Grace, and she was obliged to sit on it.
His grandparents had a way of depriving people of choice without ever having to be obnoxious about it. Quite the contrary in this particular case. Grandmama beamed upon Lady Philippa from one side, and Grandpapa gazed upon her from the other with an expression that was almost genial.
The bride they had approved for their grandson.
It was a picture that would surely remain with half thetonafter the evening was over and provide the main headline for tomorrow’s gossip columns. Without a word being spoken.
And they knew how to lay it on thick, like fruit preserves on toast.
“Fetch Lady Philippa a glass of lemonade, Luc,” his grandfather said. “She has been dancing.”
As had nine-tenths of the other people in the room.At leastnine-tenths. Lucas went to fetch the lemonade.
—
Philippa was feeling amused rather than annoyed. She was not at all sure why she liked the duke and duchess. They wielded power quite ruthlessly even when they said very little. Even when they smiled and looked benevolent, as they did now. And for the past few weeks she had been their chosen victim. It was puzzling since she had made her feelings perfectly clear to both them and their grandson. It was hard to understand their persistence. But they wanted her to marry the Marquess of Roath, and they were not prepared to take no for an answer.
It was entirely her own fault that she was sitting here now, between the two of them, looking along the length of the assembly room, like a king, queen, and princess holding court while the prince dashed off to fetch a glass of lemonade. She might have merely smiled at them and raised a hand in greeting at the end of the set and gone to join Jenny or one of her brothers—or any of a dozen or more other acquaintances. She was no longer a novice in society, after all. She knew and felt comfortable with any number of people of all ages. But Jenny had had a cluster of people around her at the time, Nicholas had been returning his partner to herchaperon—presumably her mother, the colonel’s wife—and Devlin and Gwyneth had joined a group of people with whom Philippa did not have a close acquaintance.
Besides, the duke’s beckoning arm and the duchess’s warm smile had drawn her. And now she was sitting here, on the edge of laughter even though these two people spelled danger to her.
“Stratton is a man of sense and firm principle,” the duke said, “as he has shown at the House of Lords. He looks nothing like your father. The dark-haired beauty with him is the countess, I suppose?”
“Gwyneth, yes,” Philippa said.
“And another of your brothers was coming here tonight, according to Jenny,” he said. “No, do not point him out to me. His rugged looks and military bearing would be a powerful enough clue even if he were not your father all over again in looks. I assume the young man now heading toward Jenny reallyisMajor Ware?”
“MajorNicholasWare,” the duchess said, patting Philippa’s hand. “He is indeed an extraordinarily handsome young man.”
“Hedoeslook like Papa,” Philippa said.But please, please, Nick,she thought as she gazed at him conversing cheerfully with Jenny and the group around her while all of them looked at him with smiles on their faces,if and when you marry, do not be like Papa.
The Marquess of Roath had been held up by a couple who had something to say to him. He had a full glass in each hand. He must be bringing one for his grandmother.
The Countess of Lieven, one of the patronesses of Almack’s, was approaching with a young man Philippa had never seen before. He must be new to town. The countess introduced him as Mr.Maurice Wiseman, middle son of Viscount Trollope. Philippa smiled at him as he made his bow to them all and then concentrated his attention upon her.
“I would be honored if you would dance the upcoming set with me, Lady Philippa,” he said.
But even as she drew breath to accept, the Duke of Wilby cut in ahead of her.
“Lady Philippa Ware has granted the next set to me,” he said. “Perhaps the next one after it, Wiseman?”
“I would be delighted,” the young man said. “Lady Philippa?”
“I will look forward to it,” she said. She waited until he had turned away with the countess before addressing the duke. “I hope this coming set is a vigorous jig, Your Grace. Perhaps we should take our places on the floor?”
“You asked for that, Percy,” the duchess said as she fanned her face. “I would greatly enjoy watching if I did not feel it my duty to remind you of what Dr.Arnold has said about vigorous exercise.”
“Hang the physician,” His Grace said, but he was actually chuckling as Philippa turned her head to laugh too.
But suddenly he was no longer laughing. He was gasping instead, and one hand was clawing at his chest, trying feebly to pull off his neckcloth and to push his evening coat to one side. He sagged forward and Philippa clutched his arm.
“Percy!” The duchess’s voice sounded loud and unfamiliar.
