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“I believe the honor is mine, my lord.”

Hiding his perplexity with another bow, he led Emily into the ballroom.

“Lady Bloxley barely glanced at you at the Webbs’ ball, but she seemed awfully glad to see you this evening,” Emily whispered. “Are her moods known to be so changeable?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Adam said. “I am as surprised as you are.”

They paused at the threshold, and Adam scanned the room. It was crowded. Some ladies sat along the perimeter of the dance floor; others stood talking in small clusters. Many were dancing.

“I see Phoebe,” Emily said. “She is not far from the orchestra, dancing with Mr. Webb.”

Adam was wholly unprepared for the rush of possessiveness that swept over him at Emily’s words. Forcing the muscles in his arms to relax, he directed his attention to that corner of the dance floor and spotted Phoebe immediately. She was a vision in a pale-pink gown. Her golden hair was piled upon her head in soft curls and was topped with a thin coronet of small pink roses.

The music began to slow, and Adam realized that the minuet was coming to an end.

“Shall we walk that way?” he said.

Emily nodded, and they started around the room. They had not gone far when Lord Trimble hailed him.

“Good to see you, Dunsbourne. It has been far too long.”

“It has indeed.” Adam could not actually remember the last time he’d spoken to the viscount. The gentleman had seemed old when Adam was a boy; he was doddery now. Adam offered him a polite nod and kept walking.

“Good evening, Lord Dunsbourne.” Mrs. Smead smiled widely at him and then offered a meaningful glance at her wisp of a daughter. The young lady bobbed a curtsy.

Adam inclined his head. “Good evening, Mrs. Smead. Miss Smead.”

“I say, Dunsbourne, good show.” Colonel Palmer broke away from a small group of gentlemen to greet him. “Your father—God rest his soul—would be very well pleased with the gentleman you have become.”

“Thank you, sir.” Adam was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable. For some unaccountable reason, he had gone from being a social pariah last month to being the object of everyone’s highest regard this evening.

Emily gave a gentle tug on his arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Phoebe and Derrick Webb leaving the dance floor.

“My apologies, Colonel. If you would excuse me, there is someone my sister and I must speak with.”

“Of course. Of course.”

Purposely avoiding eye contact with anyone else, Adam set his course for the corner of the room where Miss Webb and Miss Chapman were standing, waiting for Mr. Webb to return Phoebe to them.

“Hurry, Adam,” Emily said. “We must reach Phoebe before Mr. Smythe does.”

“Unfortunately, even if I deliver you to Phoebe before he arrives, she will leave again the moment he asks her for the next dance.”

“I am not worried about being left with Miss Webb and Miss Chapman.” Emily’s tone was the same one she used if ever he suggested that she spent too much time reading—one that hinted at him being an idiot. “I am merely concerned that you be the next one to escort Phoebe onto the dance floor, not Mr. Smythe—or any other gentleman, for that matter.”

“Ah,” Adam said, smiling at his sister’s loyalty. “Well, that, perhaps, I can manage.”

Increasing his pace slightly, they joined Miss Webb and Miss Chapman just as Mr. Webb and Phoebe arrived.

“’Evening, Dunsbourne.” The greeting was unusually cordial, coming from Mr. Webb, but the bounder would not meet Adam’s eyes, and after offering Phoebe a slight bow, he walked away.

“May I have the honor of the next dance, Miss Hadford?” Adam asked.

Phoebe smiled shyly, and Adam reminded himself to breathe.

“Thank you, Lord Dunsbourne,” she said. “I should like that very much.”

Emily stepped aside to talk to Miss Webb, and Adam offered Phoebe his arm. A few feet away, Mr. Smythe’s path deviated toward Miss Chapman. Adam could not bring himself to feel sorry for the gentleman. Phoebe belonged with him. He knew it as surely as he knew that his glove fit his hand.