Lady Tolliver fluttered her fingers weakly. “I cannot believe my own daughter would subject me to such torment. My heart is delicate, you know, and this music is positively violent. Someone must speak to the conductor – ”
Hetty cast Theo a sidelong glance. “Come, before she remembers we are still here.”
He fell into step behind her as she glided towards the refreshment table: a stately display of syllabubs and trifles, flanked by fluted glasses of orgeat, ratafia and watered wine. She plucked a sugaredapricot and bit into it, entirely untroubled by the crowd of eyes that still followed her.
Theo watched her with no small degree of admiration. “I cannot decide if that gown was chosen to torment your mother or the rest of theton.”
“Why not both?” Hetty replied, her tone perfectly mild as she surveyed the refreshment table. Her gloved fingers hovered over the syllabubs before settling on a small chocolate pastille, which she lifted with care.
“A perilous choice,” Theo observed. “One false move and you shall have it upon your glove, though I daresay none of the gentlemen present would be looking at your hands.”
She gave him a look over the top of the chocolate. “And where, pray, would they be looking?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Where every gentleman has been looking since you entered the room, my dear… straight at your décolletage, and wondering which blessed tailor is in possession of the measurements.”
Hetty made a sound of well-bred disgust and popped the chocolate into her mouth. “You are utterly without shame.”
“And you,” Theo returned with perfect ease, “are utterly without mercy. Have you the least notion of the havoc you have wrought this evening? I overheard a fellow near the orchestra labouring over a sonnet in your honour. The first couplet employed the wordorbs.”
“Revolting.”
“I agree entirely. An absolute menace to public decency.”
“I see your powers of exaggeration remain as unrestrained as ever.”
“They require little embellishment,” he said. “Before the night is out, I expect wagers will be laid on whether your fichu survives the next set.”
Hetty accepted a glass from a passing tray and downed it in a single tilt of her head. “Well… if you still intend to be of use to my most dreadful scheme for ruination, Lord Langley, I should think this a most opportune moment to begin.”
Theo smiled, and without waiting for consent, plucked her dance card from her wrist. “Reckless of you to leave it so unguarded,” he murmured, uncapping the tiny pencil already.
“I was rather distracted by maternal collapse.”
He scanned the list with a critical eye and made a low sound of disgust. “Lord Crimplethorpe? Good God. He smells like boiled eggs.” He struck through the offending name and inscribed his own beside the next set.
“Only one?” Hetty asked.
“Would you prefer I claim two?”
“Two reels and a waltz. We are trying to incite a scandal, are we not?”
He tapped the pencil thoughtfully against his chin. “Two dances might imply genuine interest. Three would be positively brazen.”
“And four?”
He grinned, adding his name once more. “Four would be war.”
“A bold opening gambit,” Hetty grinned. “I should warn you – Georgie keeps a ledger.”
“A ledger?”
“A matchmaking ledger,” she said darkly. “You shall be in it by morning.”
“Good God,” he muttered, replacing her card upon her wrist. “Is it too late to flee to Portugal?”
“Far too late. You’ve already made yourself quite conspicuous. Lord Crimplethorpe saw you cross out his name.”
“Then the die is well and truly cast, and my reputation for civility dashed beyond all repair. A tremendous relief, really. I have already danced with Miss Pomeroy this evening, and one bore a night is quite sufficient.” He offered his arm with mock solemnity. “Shall we commence the first official stage of this little scheme, Miss Tolliver?”
