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As Sylvestor pulled away, Trevor couldn’t help noticing that he seemed more relaxed than normal. His friend was an easygoing man, but he’d never exuded such lazy contentment before.

Marriage truly did agree with him.

Trevor glanced around to make sure no one was standing close enough to overhear him as he said, “Actually, I’m here to ask you about courting.”

Sylvestor’s eyebrows flew up, and, if possible, his grin widened. “Oh ho, that’s a surprise. Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Miss Dalton.”

Sylvestor whistled. “When you decide to do something, you aim high.”

Did that mean he didn’t think Trevor had a chance?

“That’s discouraging,” he said.

Sylvestor urged him over to a pair of unclaimed chairs in the corner. “Not necessarily. She’s known you for years, so perhaps she’ll view the match favorably.”

“I hope so.”

They sat, and a servant came over and offered them each a glass of brandy. Trevor took his and immediately drank, grateful for the social lubricant.

“I never paid much attention to Mother’s lectures about courtship,” he admitted, focusing on the brandy-induced burning in his throat so that he wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the hum of voices from the men playing card and dice games nearby. “I hate to ask, but would you mind giving me advice about what’s expected and what’s considered appropriate?”

“Of course. I’d be happy to. As I said when I wrote, I’m enjoying marriage to Marianne, and I want you to experience the joy of a good wife for yourself.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, far more at ease in these surroundings than Trevor ever could be. “But before I do that, there’s something you ought to know.”

“What’s that?”

“It seems as if Mr. Chester Emerson has also set his sights on Miss Dalton. Mr. Emerson is considered an arbiter of good taste, but you mustn’t worry. I’ve been told that both Mr. Farnsworth and Mr. Smythe, the Earl of Hatford’s youngest son, have laid bets that he’ll fail to woo her. An untitled man, however fashionable, is unlikely to secure her hand if anyone with a title is also interested.”

Trevor grimaced. Not only did he dislike that many people considered a title to be a good measure of a person’s worth, but the thought of betting on a woman’s marriage seemed distasteful. “Has anyone informed Miss Dalton of the wager?”

“Good lord, no.” Sylvestor waved his hand dismissively. “Although Emerson surely knows, and I imagine it sticks in his craw. But enough about that. You asked me about courtship. So, first, you’ll want to dance with Miss Dalton at a ball. You may share two dances with a woman you are seriously considering marrying, but not with anyone else.”

Trevor withdrew a folded piece of paper and a pencil from his pocket and made a note of that.

Sylvestor groaned. “Good God, man. You’ll make me feel like a schoolteacher.”

“Well, you are teaching me.”

“I suppose.” He ran his hand through his golden-blond hair, mussing it slightly. “Do you know how to dance?”

Grimacing, Trevor admitted, “Barely. I was taught, but I’ve never practiced.”

“In that case, I recommend finding someone who’s prepared to practice with you. Your mother, perhaps.”

No doubt Lady Wembley would be thrilled by that idea.

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Good. Now, other things you need to know. I cannot stress enough that you should never find yourself alone with an unmarried lady. If you do, and you’re caught, you may be forced to marry or get challenged to a duel by the girl’s father or brother.”

“Even if we’re on opposite sides of the room and aren’t touching each other?”

“Even then.” Sylvestor’s expression grew serious. “Trust me, Trev, if you ever think there’s a chance you might be caught in that situation, get out of there immediately. You’re an earl’s son, which means you’ll be titled one day, and it isn’t beyond the realm of possibility that some marriage-minded mama might talk her daughter into trapping you.”

Well, that was a terrifying thought. It made him feel distinctly like a grouse being hunted by bored gentlemen of leisure. Except in this case, the gentlemen were in pastel dresses and wielded fans rather than guns.

He shuddered. “What else?”