“Tall and slender, with chestnut-colored hair, wearing pink silk? She just came in.” Darby nodded toward the entrance of the ballroom. “Delicious, indeed. She’s restored my faith in pink gowns.”
“Where? I don’t see her.”
“Just there, and she’s… ah, ha! You’re in luck, Prestwick! She’s just joined Lady Fosberry. This is promising, indeed. Is she Lady Harriett?”
Darby kept whittering on, but Kit no longer heard him, because all his attention had narrowed to the young lady in the pink gown who’d just joined Lady Fosberry’s party.
She wasnotLady Harriett Fairmont.
She was the doxy who wasn’t a doxy at all, but a graceful young lady in a pink silk gown, the tight bodice clinging to her curves, her thick chestnut waves pinned in an elegant chignon, a few stray wisps of hair brushing against the creamy skin at the back of her neck.
Good Lord. How had he ever imagined she was a doxy? She looked like another creature entirely, yet she was certainly his midnight intruder—
“You’d better ask her to dance at once, Prestwick.”
There was no mistaking her, with those plump pink lips—
“Hurry, Prestwick, before her dance card is full. She’ll have no trouble attracting partners.”
And that smile, seductive and playful at once—
“For God’s sake, Prestwick, what are you waiting for?” Darby turned to him with a frown. “Go fetch your countess, before someone else steals her away.”
“That’s not Lady Harriett.”
“It’s not? What damnable bad luck, Prestwick.”
“Lady Harriett is next to her, talking to Lady Fosberry.”
“The young lady in blue?” Darby peered at her for a moment, then shrugged. “Yes, I recognize her now. She lacks the panache of the lady in pink, but she’s quite pretty. I daresay she’ll make you a proper countess.”
“The lady in pink, Darby. Do you have any idea who she is?”
If anyone would know, it was Darby.
“I’ve never seen her before. I’d remember it if I had. Whoever she is, she’s well acquainted with Lady Fosberry.”
“Yes, it appears so.” The four ladies stood together in an intimate knot, chatting with an ease that spoke of a long, close friendship.
Damnation. If he’d needed proof the Prestwick curse was real, here it was, right in front of him. He’d promised to marry one young lady, and compromised another, and of course it must turn out that the two of them were the best of friends.
What was he meant to do now? He couldn’t marry both of them—
“The lady in yellow, Prestwick. She looks familiar, but I can’t quite recall—” Darby broke off with a gasp. “Wait, is that…my God, it is! That’s Euphemia Templeton!”
“Who the devil is Euphemia Templeton?”
“Templeton, Prestwick! Surely, you’ve heard of the scandalous Templeton sisters? Why, they’re the scourge of every matron with a marriageable daughter in London. They’re dear friends of Lady Fosberry’s, and meant to be brilliant matchmakers, all five of them.”
“Matchmakers? How ridiculous.” Matchmaking was nothing more than a pastime for silly schoolgirls.
“Dear me, how thetondespises them!”
“Why should they?” There was nothing scandalous about them that Kit could see. “They look harmless enough.”
Then again, looks could be deceiving. The lady in pink might not be a doxy, but she was certainly a vixen, and possibly even a madwoman. He still wasn’t certain she hadn’t tried to drown him in absinthe. Even thinking about the dousing she’d given him made his eyes burn.
“How can you not have heard of the Templetons, Prestwick? Although the worst of their scandal happened last year, while you were in Kent. Still, I’d have wagered that tale would make it all the way to Scotland.”
