“Of course, I know. I know everyone in this room. And she is not for you. Why were you dancing with her?”
“As a favor to her stepson. He asked me to dance with her. So I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I am quite an accommodating gentleman.” He tightened his grip on the fan hand as she tried to jerk it away.
“You are hardly ever that accommodating. But I meant why did he wantyouto dance with her?”
“I–I am not certain.”
“But you suspect.”
“Suspicions are not facts.”
“Let go of my hand.”
“Only if you promise not to whack me with it.”
“Are you going to dance with her again?”
“Yes. A nice, quiet cotillion later in the evening. I promised, and I will not embarrass her by withdrawing. Are you going to hit me?”
His mother released a long sigh. “No.”
He released her hand. Slowly. And on guard. He offered his arm, and she took it, letting her fan dangle from a cord around her wrist. He led her toward a row of chairs against a far wall. “Why do you say she is not for me?”
Phyllida peered up at him. “Lady Sculthorpe is almost forty with three sons of her own. And rumor has it she has exchanged virtue for pleasure.”
“I would not fault her for something I vie for.”
His mother’s expression sharpened. “Do not be coy. You need your own family.”
“I do not see why. I thought Matthew was in charge of providing the next heirs.” A previously determined bachelor, his older brother had, in truth, relented to the idea of marriage only earlier that day.
They reached the chairs, and Phyllida settled gingerly onto one of the cushions. “I do not hold out much hope for Matthew. He is far too sour. You have the more pleasant personality, when you wish to.”
Mark scowled, uncertain if that was a compliment or a complaint. “Mother—”
“Her.” She gestured briefly at a young woman speaking with an older matron. Mother and daughter. “Lady Catherine. You danced with her earlier.”
Mark clenched his teeth to hold back his immediate reaction to the suggestion. He sat in the chair next to Phyllida, then leaned closer to whisper, “Not if she were the last woman on earth. Her mother is a bear with beastly claws, and Lady Catherine’s head is filled with tealeaves and ribbons. Having a conversation with her is slightly less enticing than watching clothes dry.”
His mother pressed two fingers to her lips. When she had her humor under control, she whispered back, “Young ladies are not brought up to be scintillating conversationalists.”
“The more’s the shame.”
“Are you not on anyone’s dance card?”
Mark released a low growl. “Yes. I am promised to Lady Carys Morgan for the next one.”
“She is kind, if somewhat too Welsh.”
“A motherly description of someone who always appears to have just stubbed her toe.”
“You really must stop.”
“You wanted me here.”
