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“Then I shall be a buttress.” He drew her arm more firmly through his. “Give me a name, and I shall tell you something ruinous about it.”

She laughed, a small startled sound. Her grip eased, and he found he wanted to earn the next laugh.

“Sir Roderick Ames,” he murmured, with a tilt of his head toward a stout gentleman by the pillar. “He has proposed to every widow in three counties, and each has refused him. He blames the Hampshire air.”

“Is it the air?”

“It is the snuff.”

“Tristan.”

Lady Ellsworth reached them, a tall, handsome woman of fifty in bronze satin, with the Ellsworth emeralds at her throat and the manner of someone who had never waited for anything in her life. “Ashcombe. And the duchess.” She took Lydia’s hand and held it, frankly assessing her. “I told Ellsworth you would never come so soon after the wedding. He wagered me a pony that you would. I must pay him, and I am delighted.”

“We are so glad you asked us,” said Lydia, who had gone pink as a peony.

“Glad and brave. Half the room has talked about you since your card came back accepted.” Lady Ellsworth smiled, not unkindly. “The other half has pretended not to. Come, there are people you must meet.”

An hour passed before Tristan could take a full breath. He led Lydia through the rooms and introduced her to people whose good opinion would matter for the next forty years: the Ellsworths’ daughter, newly married herself; old Lord Carbury, who had known Tristan’s father; Lady Stavordale, whose patronage could open or close every drawing room in Mayfair. Lydia met each of them with her straight back and her clear, unhurried voice. They found nothing to object to, and he felt prouder of her than he had any right to feel.

He heard the whispers too. A young man near the supper room told his companion, not quite low enough, that Ashcombe had given his bride her own wing. A woman behind a fan: “Ten days. And here they are. One wonders what is the matter.” He felt Lydia hear them. Her arm went rigid in his, then softened again with an effort he could almost feel.

They found Esther Fairchild near the musicians, in primrose silk, with her mother at her shoulder. Esther curtsied to Lydia with perfect grace. When her eyes met Tristan’s, the amusement in them was dry and, fortunately, kind.

“Your Graces. Forgive this crush. Lady Ellsworth thinks a ball has failed unless someone faints.” She turned to Lydia. “I am happy for you both. We are your nearest neighbors, Duchess, and my mother will call far too often.”

“I shall not,” said Lady Fairchild.

“She will,” Esther told Lydia, and drew her to the chair beside her own and asked about London. She gave Tristan no opportunity to flatter himself that her interest in him remained, and he was grateful.

“Your mother must be delighted,” Lady Fairchild said to Tristan. “She wrote that you were most impatient for the wedding.”

Lydia went still beside him. Several people nearby stopped talking to listen. He could have let it pass. “My mother was impatient,” he said. “My wife was good enough to overlook my shortcomings.”

“Your Grace makes them sound numerous,” Lydia said.

“I hoped you would contradict me.” He kept his eyes on her while Lady Fairchild laughed. Lydia took her time.

“Not before supper. I shall need my strength.”

Sir Roderick Ames joined them then. He came up behind them with his glass and a broad, benevolent look and addressed Tristan in the loud voice of a man who has mislaid his ear trumpet. “Devilish well matched, Ashcombe! I said so to my sister. Look how they carry themselves, I said. Man and wife. Nothing like it. Does a fellow good to see.”

A footman carrying a tray of ices stepped backward unaware that Lydia was behind him. Tristan’s hand went to her back to steady her before he thought about it, and she moved into the curve of his arm. He could have lowered his hand. She looked up at him, and when he left it where it was, she settled against his side.

He kept his hand at her waist while Sir Roderick talked. He felt the warmth of her through the silk, the give of her body under his palm, the rise and fall of her breathing. Her hair smelled of orange flower again. Every nerve he owned had gathered into the flat of his hand. She shifted to let a servant pass, and he loosened his hold. When the tray had gone by, she settled against him again unasked. She attended to Sir Roderick with admirable gravity, but her fingers had found his sleeve and held it.

“You are so kind, Sir Roderick,” Lydia said. Her voice held steady. She did not step away.

It felt natural, and that undid him. He had stood beside a great many women in ballrooms with his hand at their waists, and every time he had played his part in a game whose rules everyone knew. Tonight he had made no move. His hand had gone to his wife because it belonged there, and he had stood with her a quarter of an hour in front of half of London and forgotten that he meant to keep his distance.

When the orchestra began a waltz, he asked her to dance.

She studied him before she accepted, and he remembered the ball at Ashcombe, when he had made it so hard for her to refuse him. Tonight he waited until she laid her hand in his.

At first, she held herself a little apart in the turn, answered his questions, and kept her eyes on his cravat. He did not press her. He held her as the dance required and talked nonsense until she laughed again, and then, in the long sweep down the room, she lifted her eyes to his and kept them there.

He drew her in an inch. The waltz allowed it, and the floor was crowded, and no one could have called it improper. Her body met his from breast to knee for the length of the turn, and her breath caught, and his went with it. Her hand tightened on his shoulder. His hand spread wider at the small of her back. The candles went by in streaks. He saw nothing but her face, flushed and serious and close, her lips parted, and he thought that if they had been alone he would have pulled her to him and kissed her until neither of them could stand.

“Tristan,” she said quietly.