“We were going to dance,” he pointed out.
“The next dance has already started. By the time we have some champagne, we shall be in perfect time for the following one.”
“Very well.” It didn’t take long for him to snag a servant and procure three more glasses.
“It is chilled perfectly,” Charlotte said. “The dowager is a wonderful hostess.”
Except for her pesky hair coils, Beatrice thought.
Chapter Fifteen
Lady Emily arrivedlate to the dowager duchess’s ball. By keeping an eye out, Greer was able to be among the first to greet her and ask for the favor of the next dance. As he whirled her around the floor, he noticed Beatrice with Lord Melton. That fellow seemed to be the only one he’d seen her with more than once. He hoped the man was a good sort.
As Greer steered Lady Emily into a turn, he nearly tripped over his own feet, making his heart race. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass the lady and ruin his chances with her.
Perhaps he should keep his nose out of Beatrice’s business. Moreover, he ought to keep his focus on his dance partner.
As Lady Emily suggested at the previous ball, Greer had called upon her earlier in the week, resulting in a most baffling encounter. As promised, she was in the parlor receiving visitors, but so was her mother. Thus, he couldn’t talk privately with her, nor did they speak about much of anything beyond the weather and what concerts and plays were currently in London’s theatres. And her mother did as much talking as Lady Emily. Then another visitor showed up — a rival, Greer realized — but he hadn’t worked up much worry over that. If the next gentleman had to curb his conversation similarly, then this business of visiting brought no one any closer to forming an attachment than dancing a quadrille.
After about fifteen minutes, without making it too obvious, the lady’s mother made him understand he should take his leave. He hadn’t even been offered tea.
The next step, Greer supposed, was to send her a formal invitation asking to escort her to a ball or even to one of the plays her mother had discussed. If to a dance, then Lady Emily and her chaperone would be under his protection for the night. They would ride in his carriage, and in between dances, she would come back to stand by him for the evening, even while she would be expected to dance with others.
The whole process was making his head spin. In New York City, he’d heard of matchmakers who handled all this for a goodly sum. He hadn’t thought to ask Beatrice if such a thing existed in London although he couldn’t imagine nobility signing up for such a forthright method. They seemed to like to send messages with their silly fans — another lesson from the Duchess of Pelham that had been mostly lost on him. If a lady put her fan to her cheek or her ear, he assumed she was scratching an itch. How was he to know if she were showing him some special attention?
And they had visiting hours in order to sit staunchly staring at one another and discuss the constant rainy skies. Why couldn’t they simply throw bags of toffee at one another? Whomever they hit would become their chosen mate.
As the dance ended, Greer looked around for Beatrice and saw her returning to the chairs by the curtains. Naturally, she was holding Lord Melton’s arm. Quickly, Greer escorted Lady Emily back to her mother, bowed low, and hurried to claim a dance with his toffee-maker.
“Shall we try this again?” he asked after the viscount had walked away.
Beatrice offered him her sassy smile. “I suppose. I hope it’s not another wretched quadrille.”
“Why? We’ve mastered the steps, don’t you think?”
“But with a waltz or a polka, if we make a mess of it, we don’t affect anyone else. Far less stressful to my way of thinking.”
