“Up to? Why, nothing at all.” Just searching the ballroom for rakes. Orrake, rather. One specific rake, unless…perhaps he hadn’t come tonight? She glanced around the ballroom, searching for an auburn head, and a pair of impossibly wide shoulders.
It wouldn’t do to be caught unawares—
“Come, Tilly. You can’t mean to stand about with me all night. Are you sure you won’t dance?”
“Quite sure. I’m content as I am, I promise you. I’d much rather observe the company than attempt to muddle my way through a cotillion.”
“You won’t find a husband by observing, Tilly.”
A lady could hope! “I daresay my chances of marriage won’t be improved by dancing, as I look like a headless chicken when I do. Has Lord Wyle made his appearance yet?”
“Not yet, no. It’s a pity we didn’t get to meet him at church on Sunday. I was hoping to gauge whether or not he’s a proper match for Harriett.”
“My dear Phee, every matron in London is angling after him. If he’s a proper enough match for their daughters, then he’s proper enough for Harriet. You’re not having second thoughts about him, are you?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. It’s just matchmaking is all very well in theory, but as I tried to tell Lady Fosberry, I’m much better with numbers than I am with people. What if I’ve made a mistake, pushing the match?”
“You didn’t push it, Phee. You merely suggested that based on your theories, Lord Wyle and Harriett might suit. It’s up to them to decide if they do or not. If not, they’ll discover it for themselves soon enough.” Of course, they likely would suit, as Phee was an amazingly accurate judge of character.
“I suppose.” Phee watched as Lord Wrexham led Harriett out to the floor. “But it’s dreadfully nerve-wracking. I feel as if Harriett’s future has been thrust into my hands.”
“Harriett could find herself in far worse hands than yours. Between you and Lady Fosberry, she’s destined for a happy ending.”
“I hope you’re right. We’ll find out soon enough, I daresay, once Harriett and Lord Wyle dance together. One can learn a great deal from a single dance.”
“WhereisLord Wyle?” Tilly glanced around the ballroom, searching for his golden hair, but she didn’t see him. “Dash it, I was hoping he’d dance the first dance with Harriet. Whatever can be keeping him?”
“I daresay he’ll turn up sooner or later."
“I suppose so. I do hope he arrives in time for the second—”
She broke off, the words dying on her lips.
He was here.
The infamous, the scandalous, the rakish Earl of Prestwick washere.
She rose to her tiptoes, her gaze locked on a shallow alcove on the other side of the ballroom, but dozens of heads were blocking her view. Heavens, must the ladies all wear such towering turbans?
Finally, the crowd shifted, opening a gap, but the alcove was now empty.
Lord Prestwick had disappeared.
If he’d ever been there at all. Perhaps he hadn’t, and her guilty conscience was playing tricks on her, but how many gentlemen in London could boast such a distinctive shade of auburn hair?
“Who are you looking for?” Phee glanced across the ballroom with a frown.
“No one. Who would I be looking for? I don’t know a soul in London aside from you, Harriett and Lady Fosberry.” But a guilty heat was climbing into her cheeks. She despised lying, especially to Phee, but there was no question of Phee knowing of her, er…midnight encounter.
“But—”
“I beg your pardon, Phee, but I’m dreadfully parched. I believe I’ll go fetch a glass of lemonade.”
“You can’t go charging across the ballroom by yourself, Tilly. This isn’t Hambleden, where you may do as you please. We’ll send a footman.”
“No, no need. I fancy the walk.” She darted off before Phee could stop her, wincing at her sister’s shocked expression, but she simply couldn’t rest until she’d made certain the man she’d just seen was nothing but a figment of her imagination.
She left Phee gaping after her, and began a slow circle around the ballroom.
