Chapter One
April 1858
Bobby
They haven’t invented a liquor strong enough to counteract the absolute banality of an opening-night ball. Bobby Mason stares down into his drink, listening to his brother, Albie, and their friend Lord Cunningham recite a list of debutantes at a rapid-fire pace, all the names swirling into a light buzz. Bobby’s not sure how Albie has managed to keep track of this many girls, living up north all year. Perhaps this is what Meredith discusses when they’re spending long, loving evenings together.
Guilt overtakes him. He shouldn’t think ill of his new sister-in-law, stuck in the country and unable to travel because she’s expecting and poorly. If he’s being honest, Albie’s always the one bringing up engagement gossip, not Meredith. Meredith’s a delight. This unending conversation is a pain.
“But I wouldn’t put any money on the Steton-Johnson merger,” Cunningham says, his slightly nasal voice cutting into Bobby’s brooding.
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Albie says, chuckling as Cunningham rolls his eyes. “Lady Annabeth goes after what she wants. She already had ten scions last I checked.”
“Damn, already?” Bobby grumbles as he looks down at hisown Spot-the-Scion card. He’s only managed to spot seven society sons, four of whom include himself, Albie, Cunningham, and his cousin Gwen’s partner Beth’s cousin Lord James Demeroven.
Bobby glances at Demeroven and finds him staring down into his own glass, narrow shoulders high. Cunningham’s apparently betrothed to a nice girl up in the country, so he has no need to make a match this season—the poor lucky sod. But Demeroven, with his new title, will need to think about settling down. Bobby is sure Beth’s terrible uncle is eager for Demeroven to pop out an heir.
Of course, that’s not a unique perspective in this room. Bobby looks out at the sea of debutantes, mothers, and eligible scions in the immaculate ballroom. It’s all swirls of soft pastels, tails, and glittering jewels.
Oh, and there’s Mr.Yokely, Lord Yokely’s younger brother. “Eight,” Bobby mumbles. He fishes the small pencil Gwen passed him earlier out of his pocket to mark his Spot-the-Scion card. He’s doing pretty well for having spent the first hour dancing with Beth—another ten eligible sons spotted and he might have a chance at winning.
“You got another?” Albie asks, leaning up to see his card. Bobby’s got inches on his older brother now. It’s still strange to be able to look down at Albie’s light brown hair.
“Not much else to do,” Bobby offers with a shrug. He does so love his cousin and Beth for coming up withsomethingto keep them occupied.
He really should be trying harder. Beth said that betting rights and gains at the Ascot races would go to the winner of their society sons tournament this year. He’s not sure if that prize is just among the extended family, as they are, or if it includes Beth and Gwen’s young lady friends too. If so, he’s doomed. He can neverremember enough of the various heirs to fill out a whole card, and they’ve added the spares this year too. At least the girls get twirled around the room, giving them a better vantage point to scope out the myriad progeny of the ton.
He notices Albie marking something down on his card. “How many do you have?”
“Fifteen,” Albie says, brown eyes twinkling.
Bobby groans. “Demeroven, how are you doing?” he asks, wanting to feel at least a little better about his terrible way with faces and names.
Demeroven looks up, his piercing blue eyes darting about to figure out who addressed him. He looks so uncomfortable. “Um, four?”
“Just us, then?” Albie asks, not unkindly.
“Yes,” Demeroven says, sheepish.
“Well, that won’t do,” Cunningham says, his round cheeks dimpling with a slightly evil smirk. “We’ll have to get both of you lads dancing, then, won’t we?”
“Oh no. No, no,” Bobby says, trying to back away. Albie grabs him about the shoulders, laughing at his expense. “I don’t dance.”
“You danced with Beth,” Albie counters.
“Beth is different,” he says hastily. “She doesn’t step on my toes.”
“I’m sure there are any number of lovely young ladies who can manage a simple waltz without injuring you,” Albie says, his grip tightening. “What about—”
“Demeroven’s the one who should dance,” Bobby says desperately, wincing as Demeroven’s head snaps up, a lock of sandy-brown hair falling into those harried blue eyes. “He’s new. He needs to meet new people.”
“I couldn’t, really. I’m sure there must be— Oh, Lord Havenfort,” Demeroven says, turning with a relieved smile as Bobbyand Albie’s uncle approaches them. Bobby thinks he hears Demeroven add a muttered “Thank Christ.”
“Gentlemen,” Uncle Dashiell greets, smiling down at all of them. Dashiell Frederic Bertram, Earl of Havenfort, is almost a head taller than most of the men in the room and, with his striking blond hair and features, draws every eye his way everywhere he goes.
Honestly, if Bobby’s cousin Gwenwantedto find a husband, she wouldn’t have trouble. She got all of her looks from her father—statuesque, blond, and instantly captivating. Now, if Bobby could only spot her and her partner, Beth, in the crowd...
“Bobby, would you mind terribly if I stole Albert, James, and Lord Cunningham away? There are several members of our party I’d like you all to meet,” Uncle Dashiell says.
