Lord Lyttle’s eyes bulged. He reddened several shades until he appeared apoplectic.
“Well, I never,” he sputtered. “The impertinence, sirrah!”
He stomped off, inky droplets splattering his collar. Titillated eyes turned to Glory. Her face flamed as fans waved madly, tongues wagging behind them. She could imagine what they were saying:
“Did you see Lord Lyttle give Lady Glory the cut direct?”
“I wonder what the peculiar gel said this time…”
“Maybe he reprimanded her for leading their dance…”
Why am I such a social disaster? she wondered miserably. Why do I only attract men like Lord Lyttle? And why does the only gentleman I am interested in have no interest in me…
“Mind if we join you?” a melodic voice chimed in.
“Fiona!”
With a squeal of surprised joy, Glory spun around to face her smiling friend. Fiona looked ravishing in a cerulean gown with frothy skirts, her red curls artfully arranged over one shoulder. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks a healthy pink. Her husband, the Earl of Hawksmoor, stood by her side. He was a brown-haired fellow with serious grey eyes, and his stark handsomeness was the perfect foil to Fi’s dazzling charms.
After greetings were exchanged, the Hawksmoors offered to relieve Aunt Hypatia of her chaperonage duties. Glory’s aunt went off to inspect the buffet table with her friend.
“I am so glad you are here,” Glory said happily. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”
“I wasn’t planning on it, but my symptoms are vastly improved.” Fi glanced mischievously at her husband. “Hawksmoor’s symptoms are as well.”
“Minx.” The earl shot his giggling countess a look before saying with great dignity, “I was merely under the weather.”
“Whatever the case may be, it is splendid to have company,” Glory said with feeling. “I was having a rather dismal time of it before you arrived.”
“Was that Lord Lyttle I saw stomping off?” Fi asked.
Sighing, Glory told her friends about the incident involving the hair dye.
“The nerve of him, calling you impertinent when you were trying to help,” Fi said indignantly.
Gratitude warmed Glory like a cup of chocolate. It was so nice to have friends in one’s corner.
Fi wrinkled her nose. “What I don’t understand is why you danced with that old roué in the first place.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Glory said philosophically.
“Gloriana Cavendish, that is utter claptrap.” Fi gave her a stern look. “You could have your pick of suitors if you wanted. Isn’t that right, Hawksmoor?”
“Quite right,” Hawksmoor said gallantly.
I don’t want my pick of suitors. Just one.
“That is, um, nice of you to say.”
Chewing her lip, Glory debated whether she should share what had happened with Mr. Chen. Yet her feelings were raw and confusing. She wasn’t ready to expose herself to scrutiny, even from friends.
Fi and Hawksmoor exchanged a look. It was one of those looks—the kind that couples shared when they’d developed the ability to read each other’s minds. Glory had seen it often enough between the Angels and their husbands and between her parents.
Hawksmoor cleared his throat. “Ladies, may I fetch you some lemonade?”
“Thank you, darling,” Fi said. “That would be lovely.”
Brushing a kiss against Fi’s temple, the earl departed. Fi took Glory by the arm, tugging her to a divan set in an alcove by the dance floor. It was the ideal place for a tête-à-tête. A wall of potted palms provided some privacy, and the orchestra muffled their conversation to passers-by.
