“Then all is once again well between us?” His hopefulness shamed her for not being thankful for the gift of his friendship and trust.
She squeezed his hands again and smiled. “Yes, my lord. All is well between us.”
“Good, because we must dance again. The pungent marquess is as persistent as the huntresses.” He swept her back out onto the floor, turning and spinning them away from their pursuers.
“Oh dear. Mind your feet, my lord.” Fortuity struggled to keep up with the oddly faster-paced waltz. “Should the tempo not be slower?”
“Ah, my observant little wren, did you not overhear Lady Atterley proclaiming to all and sundry that she would be the first to introduce this latest style of waltz to Mayfair?”
“I did not, and I take umbrage at being called a plump little brown bird with a loud song.”
He laughed as he guided her through another twirl, not even wincing when she stumbled across his feet yet again. “Wrens are known for their cleverness. Have you never heard the tale of the little wren who hid in the eagle’s feathers to win the title of the king of birds? Whoever soared the highest won, and when the eagle reached its limits, the little wren emerged and flew even higher.”
“In Irish folklore, they symbolize betrayal,” she countered. “One flapped its wings and showed St. Stephen’s attackers where he was hiding.”
Matthew laughingly shook his head. “I prefer my story over yours.”
She couldn’t resist a sheepish grin. “So do I.” She glanced down at his poor feet as the music stopped, and she took a step back and curtsied. “Oh my. Your valet will be most displeased with me. Please offer him my apologies when he’s fetching water to soak your poor bruised feet and then polishing your shoes.”
He bowed, then held out his hand for her to take. “My feet are fine, my lady, and he polishes my shoes after each wearing, anyway. Come, let us join your sister so as not to rouse Serendipity’s ire.”
“Look,” Fortuity whispered as she took his hand.
“What?” He turned to follow her line of sight.
“Lord Smellington has cornered your huntresses. Neither Lady Serafina nor Miss Genevia are pleased.”
“And Lady Theodora may cast up her accounts,” he whispered back. “She is as green as her gown.”
Despite herself, Fortuity felt bad for the ladies. “Should you not be gallant and rescue them?”
Matthew huffed and walked her faster toward the other side of the room. “I am not the only gentleman present and am otherwise detained attending to your sister’s wishes that we not allow Blessing to tire herself excessively.”
As they reached Blessing, she eyed them with a sly expression that could only mean trouble. “Two waltzes? What will everyone surely think?”
“Stop, Essie,” Fortuity said. “Chance and Serendipity are bad enough without your crossing over to their side in the war to marry off all the Broadmere sisters.”
Blessing ignored her. Instead, she aimed a calculating smile at the viscount. “Then you would be my brother, Matthew.”
“Where is your esteemed husband?” he asked, blatantly ignoring her remark.
Blessing puckered with a moue of bored displeasure. “Still speaking with Lord Atterley.”
“No puckering,” Fortuity told her sister in a teasing tone, feeling somewhat sorry for her being temporarily abandoned. “Remember what Mama said.”
Blessing smoothed her expression, then hissed a dramatic sigh.
“I must ask,” Matthew said. “What did your mother say aboutpuckering?”
“Causes lines and gives one the appearance of a shriveled piece of fruit,” Fortuity said.
“I am hungry again,” Blessing said. “Will they never announce supper?”
Matthew bowed. “Allow me to fetch you a lemonade and some treats to tide you over, my lady. My future godchild must not go hungry.”
Blessing brightened. “That would be lovely and shall be remembered when Thorne and I choose godparents for little Aloysius Starpeeper.”
Matthew backed up a step, and Fortuity snorted with laughter. “Surely, you do not mean to name the child Aloysius Starpeeper Knightwood?” she asked.
