“Thank you, my lord.” She knew she must steer the conversation back to neutral topics. “This is my first time at a dance without cards. Is there generally an order to the types of dances, similar to the other balls?” While nearly yawning with boredom at her own question, for the life of her, Beatrice could think of nothing better.
“Not really,” he said. “It is entirely up to the hostess. If she wishes, we may dance quadrilles all night. If we are lucky, we shall get to waltz next. I would very much like to waltz with you.”
She nodded in agreement, then realized perhaps he was being too forward again. Waltzes were more intimate than quadrilles, to be sure. Turning slightly in her chair, she observed the other dancers, giving him more of her shoulder and profile.
“I’m glad I have a moment to speak alone with you,” Lord Melton added. “I must offer my sincere apology.”
Her gaze snapped back to his. He had her full attention. “Whatever for?”
“Why, for saying I would call upon you and then not following through. I feared you might be annoyed with me, but when you agreed to a dance tonight, I can hope you have forgiven my infraction.”
Beatrice could hardly credit any of that long-winded claptrap, mostly because she’d forgotten his existence as soon as the last ball had ended. However, she could hardly say that. She formed her thoughts.
“I dare say I wondered at your...” —impudenceseemed too strong a word, as didrudeness— “at your inattentiveness, my lord. I was concerned some misfortune had befallen you.” She had to stop herself from rolling her eyes at her own nonsense!
Incredibly, he nodded as if she’d said precisely the right thing. “I was called out of London on business, or I would not have left you waiting and wondering. Not for the world.”
She smiled at him, for he seemed earnest and, as Charlotte had pointed out, he had good hair. “Then there is nothing for me to forgive. Let us start anew, shall we?” Beatrice thought she was getting quite good at this polite conversation, and prayed she didn’t sound like an eighteenth-century lady-in-waiting.
Again, Lord Melton seemed perfectly happy at her words. A minute later, the long quadrille with its six parts ended, and Charlotte’s partner escorted her over.
“This is Lord Feymor,” she said, introducing him to Beatrice.
“Enchanted,” the man said, bowing slightly, and Beatrice nodded in reply, not feeling particularly enchanting.
“How did you get here so quickly?” her sister asked. “The dance just ended and you already have champagne.”
Sighing, Beatrice had hoped not to have the debacle brought up.
“Your sister had a tickle in her throat that sadly forced her to vacate the dance floor early.”
Lord Melton’s diplomatic response surprised Beatrice, and she looked more warmly at him. Then back to Charlotte.
“I’m surprised you didn’t see me leave, but glad it didn’t disrupt those outside of my formation.”
“No, I was so intent on dancing, I didn’t notice. Lord Feymor is a very fine dancer,” she added, sending the young man her winsome smile.
“As are you, Miss Rare-Foure,” he responded. “May I return later in the evening for another?”
“Certainly,” Charlotte agreed.
The gentleman made a fashionable bow and turned away.
“You are new this Season,” Lord Melton suddenly spoke. “Two affluent sisters, both fair of face, unknown to any of us and unknowing of us, in return.”
Beatrice glanced quickly at Charlotte, wondering how to process the viscount’s classification of everyone else in the room as “us” and most assuredly not includingthem. And once more, she wondered if she should clear up the notion their family had a fortune to bestow upon her and Charlotte.
Lord Melton continued, “You ladies must be cautious during the Season. Sadly, there are the despicable among us pretending to be who they are not. Nevertheless, I am not providing a warning, as I would never cast aspersions on Feymor or anyone else, merely an observation of fact — something I know as well as most of the ladies here, but that you,” he addressed Charlotte exclusively now, “probably do not. Feymor has been engaged to two ladies last year in rather quick succession, yet here he is, unmarried.”
Beatrice watched her sister take in that bit of information. And then, not looking in any way dismayed or doubtful, Charlotte smiled, appearing as cheerful as ever she did.
“Thank you for the information, my lord. I am not looking to be fiancée number three for Lord Feymor, nor even number one for anyone else. We are mostly here for—”
Beatrice coughed loudly, not knowing if her sister were going to speak about Mr. Carson’s hunt for a titled lady or for their own task of finding spouses. In the case of the former, his lordship might be offended at the notion of a wealthy American coming over to poach a fairer member of the nobility. As for the latter, she didn’t particularly care for the viscount knowing she was husband-hunting.
Despite everyone knowing the Season was basically a marriage market, it was not something one wanted openly acknowledged or discussed. And then there was the awful realization that she and Charlotte were precisely thedespicable peoplewhom he’d mentioned.
“Sorry,” Beatrice said into the abrupt silence. “The tickle returned momentarily. Perhaps we should all have more champagne.” Realizing she still had some in her glass, she drank it down quickly and gave Lord Melton her best beseeching stare.
