“That is it?” Catherine said, her tone a touch too critical for his taste.
“Well—I plan to—I intend to speak with her alone.”
“But you’re the host of this affair,” John said, “It will be difficult for you to break away undetected.”
“True,” Montaigne answered. He had not exactly worked out how he would get Olivia alone, given the circumstances. Or if she would even be willing to speak with him privately.
Catherine sighed. She was giving off the clear impression that she found his lack of ballroom tactics a distinctlymaleoversight.
“If you want to speak to a lady alone at a ball, you have only a few options,” Catherine said tartly, “and fewer still if you want to minimize the risk of scandal.”
“I am listening.” His tone was grudging, but he knew he needed the direction.
“You can whisk her off to the library or the grounds,” Catherine said, “But if you are seen, it will be deadly for the reputation of the lady—and as your Olivia works as a companion, such an option is not acceptable.” Catherine paused. “Do you hear me?Not acceptable. She may not want to marry you. If you lose her her post, you’ll be a villain.”
“Alright, alright, I wasn’t—that wasn’t my plan,” Montaigne said, even though he was aware that it had notnotbeen his plan. “What else?”
“You could sit with her in the corner, near the matrons and spinsters, but those ladies will pick up every word that you two say to one another. I would not suggest it. And you could dance, the waltz, of course, because you won’t be able to hear a thing during a quadrille. But dancing is hardly the ideal time for a talk of import.”
“Yes,” he said, his frustration mounting. It seemed speaking to Olivia, even here, where he thought it would be easier, was impossible. “In light of all of these enticing options, whatdoyou recommend?”
Catherine bit her lip. “Well, it’s not perfect, but no option is. I’d advise you to ask her to dance and then to take a short airing on the balcony afterward. Neither is scandalous and you will have, hopefully, enough time to have a real conversation.”
“I am not sure she will dance with me.”
“Come, now, Monty,” John chimed in, “Have confidence. You are looking well.”
Montaigne rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t want to attract undue attention. Given her position and mine—and that of the Mappertons.”
“Well,” Catherine said, “You’ll need to convince her. And the waltz will be the song next, so I wish you luck.”
Montaigne grunted as Catherine and John drifted away. He was resentful of Catherine’s warnings but, also, grateful. He had imagined pulling Olivia into one of the downstairs rooms—his study, perhaps—and begging her to listen to him. But, to hear Catherine tell it, that would be risky and inconsiderate. And he couldn’t disagree with her assessment.
In which case, he needed to find Olivia for the waltznow.
Montaigne began to search the room, which was now almost completely full of guests. Finally, he spotted her, near the far wall. She was speaking to Viscount Brightley. The expression on her face, however, gave him no relief. Lord Brightley was atonfixture. The man did not seem physically capable of missing a party or rout. Accordingly, a more pompous personage had never graced the surface of the earth. From the way his eye was trained on the dancers, and the way he seemed to be gesturing towards Percy and Natasha, he did not have a positive feeling about the exchange currently taking place.
He sped towards Olivia and Brightley and, as he drew nearer, he heard what the viscount was saying.
“—of course, you will not be offended, my dear, when I tell you that those who talk about a match between Lord Percy and Miss Mapperton gravely mistake the matter. The Carrington family is related to half of the first families in England—on my mother’s side, I am third cousins with the earl myself—and I can tell you, and you may want to give a hint to your Mrs. Mapperton on this score, that a scion of such a clan will not marry a lady of foreign extraction.”
Olivia’s face looked as grave as stone. But she merely replied, quietly, “I am sure you could not be mistaken about such a matter, my lord.”
“Perhaps, if her mother did not go about with her, the young lady could pass herself off better. But, such as things are, it is obvious that she is not wholly English. Not even wholly European, of course, despite her time in France. An Indian shawl on the arm of a young woman such as Lady Petunia is one thing, but an Indian sister-in-law? I am sure the earl could not sanction such a—”
“Out. Now.” Montaigne had reached Lord Brightley, after what felt like an eternity, and he had to work to speak in a tone below a bellow.
“Pardon me, Montaigne?” The old lord said, evincing only mild surprise.
“Take yourself, your wife, and your three daughters out of my home, at once, sir,” he commanded. He had known Lord Brightley since he was a child and had never found the man remarkable or worthy of notice before. Now, he couldn’t fathom why Brightley was regarded as respectable.
“My boy,” the old man said, “You seem to have the wrong end of the matter. I merely was telling Miss Weston here—”
“MissWatson,” Montaigne corrected, working to keep his outrage under control. “You have been rattling on about matters that do not concern you and on which you have no right to speak. You have no more idea what I find acceptable in a sister-in-law than you have any notion of gentlemanly conduct. Go, sir. You are banned from this entertainment. And this house.”
He watched Brightley realize that he was serious. The man turned a very unbecoming shade of puce.
“If you think I will take such an insult silently, you are mistaken,” Lord Brightley said, his feet still unmoving.
