“Somewhat forward gentlemen,” Louise observed coldly.
Jo softened. “They could not have known, darling.”
Louise had not been simply inventing an excuse to avoid dancing with Lord Dominic when she’d claimed she was mourning her husband. Louise had grieved deeply when the Earl of Heyford—Geoffrey—had passed away of a sudden illness four years ago. Louise had nursed him to his last hour and had been inconsolable for a very long time.
Louise was still devoted to him. Caro had been very sad at Leopold’s death, and missed him, but she always felt a twinge of guilt that she didn’t mourn as intensely as did Louise.
“Mr. McCormick, we agreed, is sunny natured,” Caro said into the awkwardness. “Not forward at all.”
“That is true.” Louise adjusted her gloves as she admitted this. “I suppose his lordship vexed me, is all. He is conceited, like so many of his kind.”
Caro and Jo exchanged a glance, Jo raising her brows.
“Of his kind?” Jo asked Louise. “What kind is that, my dear friend?”
Louise’s cheeks grew pink. “Second sons who have no idea what to do with themselves. From what I hear, his brother, the Marquis of Cheltenham, has no use for him.”
“Perhaps that should engender our pity,” Jo said. “More than our condemnation.”
Louise stopped short of rolling her eyes. “I’ve met such gentlemen before, my sweet Jo. They know I am a widow of some fortune, and therefore, I must be in want of a husband. Or a lover, on whom I will lavish fine gifts that they will then turn and hand to their much younger mistresses. They flock like vultures.”
“So cynical.” Jo shook her head. “My poor darling, to have men falling over themselves to be next to you must be a terrible fate. Yes, some will be after your fortune, but a few likely want to gaze upon your beauty, listen to your dusky speech …”
“She is romantic,” Louise said disparagingly to Caro. “One day, unhappily, she will be disabused of these notions.”
Jo laughed, in no way worried. “Speaking of romantic …” Jo pointed with her closed fan at Eamon, who had departed from the Harpers and was slowly making his way back toward Caro. “I imagine he wishes another dance. How splendid.”
Caro’s heart beat rapidly. In panic? Embarrassment? Joy?
“Well, I do not wish another dance,” she said hastily. “One was enough to keep everyone from believing me haughty. Two would be quite improper. Excuse me, please.”
As Eamon neared the group, Caro spun and walked rapidly away, as though she urgently needed to seek a withdrawing room. She used her knowledge of Jo’s home to open the nearest door to a private passageway and vanish into it.
Chapter 12
Eamon halted a step to watch Caro pointedly turn and hurry away from him.
What to do? Change direction and pretend he hadn’t been making for her? Pause to speak to those he passed? Or rush after Caro like a lovelorn swain?
Eyes were upon him. Though Eamon was acquainted with more than half the people in this room, he was a newcomer in the prince’s circle. The guests scrutinized him, wondering at his sudden inclusion.
If Eamon charged after Caro, tongues would wag, and wag hard, which would do Caro no good.
He changed his falter into a deliberate stop to acknowledge a group of gentlemen he’d met at gaming hells, some of whom regularly dandled ladybirds on their knees. Tonight, they were pretending to be virtuous, honorable gents for the Prince and Princess of Osagard.
“Stone,” one of them said awkwardly.
“Good evening,” Eamon said, but to their relief, he soon moved on.
Instead of continuing toward Princess Josephine and the countess, he gave them a nod as he strolled past to casually move through the crowd. He halted to chat now and again with knots of guests, as though this had been his intention all along. He felt the two ladies observe him, their eagle-like stares most unnerving.
Wolfe and McCormick were now engaged in conversation with the prince himself. None of the three noted when Eamon slipped out of the ballroom through its main doors.
Eamon drew a breath of relief when he reached the front hall. A footman immediately advanced upon him, ready to direct Eamon somewhere, or fetch him something, or perhaps boot him out of the house entirely.
“Seeking some air, my good fellow.” Eamon adopted the tones of a twit-about-Town. “It is damnably close in the ballroom.”
The footman eyed him in some suspicion but bowed and returned to his post at the front door.
