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“Only because your sister won’t like it,” she said with a laugh.
“Perhaps. And you, are you still determined that you don’t need a husband?”
They’d reached the lodge porch, and she turned to face him, her arms around the sketchbook held to her chest. “If I can help Roz and Miranda to find good matches, with gentlemen who are … kind and honorable, that will be enough for me.”
“Will it? I think you must dance at least once at the ball. Your sisters and your neighbors will expect it.”
“I … I suppose I must, at least once, though you and your sister will lead the first dance.”
“Then you must dance, or everyone will get the idea that dancing is a particular form of torture.”
She laughed, and he wanted to keep her there, on the porch, laughing up at him, his book held in her arms. Again, the color of her eyes eluded him. It was the blue of a gull’s wing, or the blue of distant mountains. In those eyes he felt seen as he had not been seen before. “Will you come to check Winter’s arrangements?” he asked. “To see that everything is as you want it to be?”
“If you think my approval is needed.”
“I do, though Winter seems to have everything in hand.”
“He is a remarkable young man. I can come in the morning.”
“You won’t swim?”
“On the day of a ball?” Her laughing gaze met his. “You, perhaps, as a mere man, do not understand the amount of preparation a woman requires to be ready to conquer hearts. I will be at my sisters’ beck and call all day.”
“By my count you still owe me a swim.”
Her expression changed. “I thought our wagering was at an end.”
“Not until you’ve paid in full,” he said. He was clear on that point.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cordelia led the wet, muddy dog around to the back of the lodge, toweled him off, and entered the kitchen. Cook did not look up from whatever confection she was preparing for the ball as Cordelia retrieved a bone for the dog and tossed it to him. Then she followed voices to the crowded little parlor. Roz and Miranda sat together, huddled over the ball guest list.
“Don’t worry, Mir,” Roz was saying. “You will have partners.”
Mir shook her head. “No one will want me.”
“Nonsense. You are so pretty that no one will be able to resist you.”
“Mr. Hartley will dance with Elizabeth Cox. I don’t think I can bear it, Roz.”
“Oh Mir, I know he’s handsome, but he’s so stiff and proper. You don’t need him as a partner. Look, here’s Teddy Chapman on the list. I’m sure he will want to dance with you.”
“I thought Mr. Hartley liked me,” said Mir in her smallest voice.
Cordelia stepped into the room, and her sisters looked up. “Mr. Hartley likes himself more than he likes any woman. He’s the sort of handsome man who rates himself above his company.” Cordelia sat down across from Mir and Roz and tucked Graymont’s sketchbook next to her in the chair. Later, she would find a safe place for it. Mr. Hartley’s defection had cast down Mir’s spirits in a way that made Cordelia want to plant the man a facer, as her brothers would say. “Show me the list. Let’s find some worthy partners for you both.”
Roz sent her a doubtful glance but turned the list around for Cordelia. As a roster of eligible gentlemen, the list was dismayingly limited. The younger men in particular seemed a sorry lot. There were chinless Corey Yates and tongue-tied Alexander Ford. Reginald Elton was inclined to the excesses of fashion, and Will Martin was apt to stumble awkwardly. Next to them all, she could not help thinking of Mr. Winter, with his quiet competence, his infatuation with Mir, and, sadly, his utter lack of fortune. Cordelia kept looking. “George Webb will do for a partner, I think. He’s kind and intelligent.” She looked up.
Mir smiled weakly and nodded. “I’m sure I can dance with George.”
Roz frowned. “Yes, you can. You merely have to overlook his stoutness. And his tendency to step on one’s toes. Dancing with George Webb is a public service.”
“There is that,” Cordelia agreed, ready to laugh at the absurdity of it all. How could four and twenty families fail to produce a single son to catch a young woman’s fancy? She put aside the list and picked up the sketchbook.
“What is that?” Mir asked.
“It’s Graymont’s sketchbook.”
