Max turned back to where Lady Caroline stood, his interest piqued all the more.
“Have you been introduced?” his mother asked.
“Not properly.”
Lady Helton’s eyes took on a deliberate gleam. “Every lady deserves to dance at least one set.”
“I suppose,” Max conceded.
His mother nodded and then, having made her decision, tucked her hand through Max’s arm and turned to the duchess. “If you’ll excuse us, your Grace.”
“But of course,” the duchess answered, her mouth pinched.
Rather than protest and embarrass his mother, which was something Max would never do, he allowed her to lead him across the parquet floor to where Lady Caroline was pressed against the wall—partially behind a ficus.
As they neared the tree, his mother’s expression turned to one of delight. She’d been a staple to the ton for decades and was quite good at this.
"Come out from behind there, my lady. Never hide your light, I always say. Especially when one looks as pretty as you do this evening.”
The girl’s smile was more of a wince. “Thank you, my lady. You are looking quite handsome yourself.” She curtsied even as she shot Maxwell a curious glance.
“Oh, you needn’t tell fibs.” His mother smiled. “I know I’m past my prime.”
Max barely resisted rolling his eyes. “Say thank you, Mother. You know you always look beautiful.”
Lady Helton beamed, of course, before turning to tap her fan against his chest. “Seeing as I brought you into this world, I image you feel compelled to say that.” But then she tugged him forward. “Darling, may I present Lady Caroline Rutherford, the eldest of the Earl of Standish’s sisters. Lady Caroline, I’m proud to introduce you to my son, the Earl of Helton.”
Lady Caroline’s eyes went wide. She nearly lost her reticule when she dropped into a second, far clumsier curtsey.
And her eyes were cautious. She was as aware as he that their encounter in the park had been quite inappropriate, and played along like they’d never met.
Even if she was slightly taken aback.
He had not offered his name and would wager she’d judged him to be a member of the middle-class—perhaps a solicitor or banker.
Anything but an earl.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Helton.” Her voice came out low and a little breathless.
"The pleasure is all mine," he replied, taking her hand and placing a light kiss on her knuckles.
And because his mother looked on expectantly, Max cleared his throat.
“Will you dance the next set with me? If I’m not too late in asking, that is.”
A flick of a glance to the card tied around her wrist summoned a delightful shade of pink to her cheeks. “I’m afraid I cannot. It’s a waltz.”
“You don’t know the steps?” Maxwell was unaccustomed to being refused.
“Oh, I know the steps. It’s just that the ladies at Almacks have yet to give me their approval…”
Ah… Unfortunate, indeed. And ridiculous, seeing as the gel was older than most debutantes—possibly well into her twenties.
“Then the next set,” Max suggested. He could easily consider his duty fulfilled, but his mother looked on, and he, apparently, was a glutton for punishment.
Because this expert at all things newspaper related would no doubt subject his pride and joy to additional criticism.
Lady Caroline glanced down at the small card tied to a string around her wrist and, with a slow smile, she shrugged. “You are lucky then, my lord. There are several of those to choose from. Do you prefer a cotillion? Or perhaps a quadrille?”
