“May I call on you at your home?”
He hoped he’d asked properly, thinking he ought to have worked in the wordshonorandfavoras the British seemed often to do.
Lady Emily’s cheeks went slightly pink. “Normally, one waits until one is off the dance floor,” she said, although not unkindly.
He was about to ask why, when her steps in the quadrille took her away from him.
So that was why.One didn’t like to be left hanging while one’s partner twirled with another man.
When she returned to him, she still didn’t answer, and he knew she would keep him waiting until the dance’s end. As he escorted her back to her chaperone, in the brief space between where they’d danced and her table, she halted her steps.
“You may call on me,” she said succinctly, looking up at him with her soft brown eyes.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly, feeling a little unnerved. “Should I ... that is, may I suggest a day and time, or...?” he trailed off, wishing he’d asked the duke for a little more guidance now that he’d come to the point when he wanted to start calling on ladies.
“You may ask someone else where my father’s residence is,” she told him. “And normally, good manners would dictate you come by with your personal card at visiting hours, hoping I am in, or send a nicely written request.”
He knew his eyes were probably wide, and Greer made an effort to relax as if he knew all the civilities she mentioned.
“Of course,” he said. “However, since we are here, speaking to one another,” he trailed off.
Lady Emily smiled. “Since we are, indeed, here, then I will tell you that I am seeing visitors at eleven o’clock tomorrow. And now, I must return to my table so my next partner can claim his dance.”
Soon, it was time to take the Rare-Foure sisters home to Baker Street for some much-needed rest. They were probably the only females at the ball who had to worry about getting up in a few hours. As for his part, he was looking forward to the following day when he would call upon Lady Emily St. George and perhaps begin the pursuit of a wife in earnest.
Chapter Thirteen
“Amity is very lucky,” Charlotte said, yawning behind her gloved hand as they walked to work. Their mother had opened the shop so they could sleep longer, but they had no intention of shirking their duties after being blessed with such a wonderful ball. “She can sleep in whenever she wishes.”
Beatrice nodded. “Yet still, she comes to make chocolate with us most every day.”
“True!” Charlotte said it with a sense of wonder as if she hadn’t considered it before.
“If you married an aristocrat or anyone well off for that matter, would you still work here?” Beatrice asked, pushing open the door and letting the delicious aroma fill her head. After she’d been in the shop for a few minutes, she hardly noticed the rich scent of chocolate and sugary sweets, but the first breath was always intoxicating.
Charlotte didn’t answer immediately.
