“By imagining the admiration of several suitors.”
“Margaret!”
Poppy gasped in mock offense. Margaret smiled in spite of herself. The excitement was infectious. Poppy had been waiting for this evening since her name first appeared on the invitation list. A new gown had arrived only days ago, pale blue with delicate embroidery at the hem. She had stood before the mirror as though studying a stranger.
The carriage slowed, and Margaret felt her own pulse shift. She told herself it was the occasion.
The footman opened the door. Music drifted from within the house, and light spilled from the tall windows onto the pavement. Poppy descended first, accepting assistance with a sudden seriousness that Margaret did not know she had. Lady Fairleigh followed, composed as ever, followed by Emily. Margaret stepped down last.
Their names were announced. Poppy’s fingers brushed Margaret’s sleeve as they entered the ballroom. The room glittered with candlelight reflected in polished floors and mirrored panels. Silk and satin moved in slow currents. Conversation rose and fell like distant surf. It was as normal for Margaret, but it was all new to her sister.
“Oh,” Poppy breathed.
Margaret watched her sister’s face soften into wonder. She felt a quiet fondness at the sight. Poppy had always loved stories. Tonight, she believed herself inside one.
“Remain with us until the first set,” Lady Fairleigh murmured.
“Yes, Mama,” Margaret nodded, though her gaze had already begun its search.
He was not near the entrance. She scanned the far side of the room where the more established gentlemen tendedto gather. She saw Lord Bramwell and Mr. Huxley, two members of Parliament in earnest discussion, and a group of other gentlemen that she did not recognize, but no Duke of Ravensmere.
“You are looking for someone,” Poppy said under her breath.
“I am surveying the room.”
“You are searching for him.”
Margaret allowed herself a small smile.
“And if I am?”
“Then I hope you find him soon.”
Lady Fairleigh steered them toward a group of acquaintances. Margaret offered the required greetings, answered polite inquiries about the garden party, and endured a knowing look from the kindly Mrs. Ellsworth that suggested the rain had been widely discussed.
“You were seen beneath the oak,” Mrs. Ellsworth said with gentle implication.
“It was the nearest shelter,” Margaret replied.
“Of course.”
The woman’s smile lingered longer than necessary. Margaret excused herself at the first natural pause and guided Poppy toward the refreshment table.
“You are flushed,” Poppy observed.
“It is warm.”
“It is not.”
Margaret took a glass of lemonade and placed one into Poppy’s hand.
“You must pace yourself. There will be many dances.”
Poppy nodded solemnly.
“I shall reserve the first for someone respectable.”
“You sound as though you have made a list.”
