“Lady Ingoldsby looks as if she’d like to devour you,” Darby muttered under his breath as they passed the lady in question.
She did, which was odd, indeed, as she’d given him the cut direct when they’d met at the theater last winter. Whatever offense he’d committed then was evidently forgiven now, as the lady’s lips stretched into an eager smile when he caught her eye, and she quickly nudged her daughter forward.
“I warned you this would happen, Prestwick,” Darby hissed through clenched teeth.
“What? What’s happening?” Why was every matron in the ballroom grinning at him?
“Just keep moving.” Darby nudged him forward.
“Christopher!” Lady Fosberry reached out her hand to Kit as they approached. “Oh, dear, I mean Lord Prestwick, of course. I beg your pardon, my lord, but it’s dreadfully difficult to remember to call you by your title when I’ve known you these twenty-five years or more.”
“You may call me whatever you wish, my lady. Such old friends need not stand on ceremony.” Kit bowed over Lady Fosberry’s hand, risking a quick glance at Mathilda Templeton as he did.
She was watching him with narrowed eyes, her mouth pressed into a tight line. He cleared his throat, and wrenched his gaze away from her. “I don’t believe you’re acquainted with Mr. Darby, my lady.”
“I am not.” Lady Fosberry took Darby in from head to toe. “Mr. Darby’s reputation precedes him, however.” It would have been an insult from anyone else, but the twitch of Lady Fosberry’s lips took the sting out of her words. “This is Miss Euphemia Templeton.” She gestured to the lady in yellow who stood beside her. “Lord Prestwick, and Mr. Darby.”
Euphemia Templeton, who appeared to be a great deal quieter and more reserved than her younger sister, offered them a polite smile. “Lord Prestwick, and Mr. Darby.”
“Miss Templeton.” Darby dipped into a smooth bow, and held out his hand. “Will you favor me with a dance?”
“Oh, I…” Euphemia Templeton stammered, her cheeks going red. “I didn’t intend to—”
“Nonsense, Euphemia.” Lady Fosberry nudged her forward. “Of course, you must dance.”
There was little Miss Templeton could do then but accept Darby’s hand, and permit him to lead her out to the floor.
“It’s a pity Harriett didn’t know you’d be here this evening, my lord, otherwise she would have saved you a dance,” Lady Fosberry went on.
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“Harriett, Lord Prestwick.” Lady Fosberry nodded toward the dance floor. The musicians had just played the last notes of a lively Scotch reel. Lady Harriett had been dancing with Lord Wyle, but instead of returning her to her aunt, Wyle swept her into the Sussex Waltz.
Two dances? Was Wyle angling for Lady Harriett? Because she could hardly do any better than Wyle. He was this season’s Nonesuch, and every young lady in London wanted him.
His gaze drifted back to Mathilda Templeton, who wasn’t taking any pains to hide her dislike of him, with that fierce scowl on her pretty lips. A reluctant twinge of admiration pricked him. Shewasa menace, just as he’d told Darby, but despite her dainty appearance, the girl had a spine of steel.
“… afraid her dance card is already full this evening,” Lady Fosberry was saying. “It’s a pity, as I’m certain she would have been delighted to dance with such a dear old friend.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. That is a pity.”
“But no matter, my lord. Miss Mathilda here islongingfor a waltz. Aren’t you, Mathilda?”
“Who,me?” Mathilda glanced at Kit, aghast. “A waltz, withLord Prestwick?”
“Of course, with Lord Prestwick.” A small smile rose to Lady Fosberry’s lips. “He’s standing right here, is he not?”
“I’ve no desire to waltz with Lord Prestwick. Indeed, I can’t think of anything that would please me less. Why, I’d rather have a tooth pulled than—”
“That’s quite enough, Mathilda.” Lady Fosberry rapped Miss Templeton on the arm with her fan. “I do beg your pardon, my lord. Mathilda is a trifle, er…reserved, I’m afraid.”
Reserved? Mathilda Templeton was as reserved as a feral cat, but it wasn’t as if he could refuse to dance with her. “Of course, my lady.” He offered Mathilda Templeton his hand. “Would you care to—”
“Lady Fosberry!” A small, round lady in acres of apple green silk with an enormous peacock feather in her turban was bustling toward them, tugging a young lady by the arm. “I’d quite despaired of finding you, but here you are, at last!”
Lady Fosberry, who hadn’t stirred from her corner of the ballroom all evening, blinked in surprise. “Lady Henry. How do you do?”
“Very well indeed, my lady. My dearest Nancy here was just saying that your entertainments are always the most delightful of the season.” Lady Henry cast a sidelong glance at Kit, and pushed her daughter forward. “Weren’t you, Nancy?”
