“Do call again, Your Grace,” she said. “I have not yet delivered the political polemic you were promised.”
As Malcolm stepped out into the crisp darkness between the Loxwell residence and his carriage, he glanced back over his shoulder at the light spilling from the windows. The house was aglow, upstairs and down, the Balfour family warm and contented inside it.
At least, in the dark and empty house that awaited him, there was a friendly dog who would be glad of his company. Malcolm supposed he would have to content himself with that.
9
“There is nothing I wish to do less than attend another ball,” said Isobel, pulling her long white gloves up to the elbow with uncharacteristic force. “There is always such a crowd, and so many people to speak to, and such noise that nobody can even hear the music! And whenever I find a quiet spot to sit by myself and think, some officious old matron or another takes it upon herself to find me a partner!”
“Oh, the indignation!” said Selina, giving a theatrical sigh. “Only imagine having too many willing partners at a ball!”
“I will not listen to your admonishments,” said Isobel, as a footman settled her long red cloak about her shoulders. “You never dance. Why should I? I am one of nature’s wallflowers. I should not be expected to chatter and – and flirt!”
Selina put on her own cloak, navy blue and edged with white fur, and put her hand on Isobel’s shoulder to steer her out of the front door. “Nothing is preventing you doing exactly as I do, and saying no. The right of refusal is a lady’s prerogative, after all.”
“Oh, I should never dream of refusing someone the way you do! I would surely offend them, and then I would never forgive myself.”
“Then I believe your chief complaint is an excess of sympathy for the poor gentlemen who ask you.” Selina smiled indulgently as they settled themselves inside the carriage. It was a good thing that only the two of them were going, for the confusion of skirts and furs took up most of the available room.
Isobel pressed her lips together and looked out of the window, her eyes taking on a tearful brightness. Selina realised that there was more to her complaints than an unwillingness to dance.
“There is something else that’s troubling you, isn’t there?”
No response. Selina leaned forward and squeezed Isobel’s hand.
“If you are concerned that a particular gentleman will be at the ball – a particular gentleman who has recently returned to England, perhaps – then you needn’t fret. He was not invited. I saw Mrs Whitby at the dressmaker’s yesterday, and I made a point of asking.”
Isobel pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I am a silly goose,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Forgive me, Selina. I did not mean to be cross.” She tucked the handkerchief away and forced a smile. “I am glad you made me come. I would not wish to offend Mrs Whitby, or dear Georgiana.”
Georgiana Whitby was a close friend of Isobel’s, and the ball was in honour of the occasion of her twentieth birthday. It would be a private ball, as intimate as such things ever were, and Mrs Whitby was the nominal chaperone for the two Balfour ladies. Though Selina felt that her need for a chaperone grew more ridiculous each day.
Everything would be much simpler when she was well into middle age and could go about as she pleased without anyone remarking on such unnatural independence in an unmarried woman. After all, nobody ever suspected Aunt Ursula of impropriety, and she was not only unwed but a great deal more prone to misbehaviour than Selina had ever been.
“I wonder if we will see the Duke of Caversham this evening?” Isobel mused aloud. Selina was jerked from her pleasant thoughts of spinsterhood with a nasty start.
“Is he likely to be there?” It had not occurred to her to ask Mrs Whitby about the duke. Though, if she was honest with herself, perhaps the omission had been deliberate.
Selina did not like thinking too much about Malcolm. She particularly did not like to remember the way he had held her face for one strangely long moment in the drawing room, the laughter in his eyes replaced by something else entirely.
“Georgiana certainly wanted to invite him. She’s one of the chief followers of His Gorgeous Grace.” Isobel rolled her eyes upwards, pretending to faint and fanning herself vigorously. “The other day, would you believe, he tipped his hat to her in the park! A sure sign that he has taken a fancy to her.” She snapped the fan closed, smiling fondly. “She was full of envy when I told her he had dined with us. The Whitby sisters have been begging their father to ask him all Season.”
“Caversham is a dreadful flirt,” said Selina. “If I were Georgiana Whitby, I would keep my distance.”
“He flirts with you, Selina,” said Isobel sagely. “I don’t know that he has ever bothered with Georgiana, poor girl.”
“If he flirts with me – and I do not necessarily agree that he does – it is only an attempt to sway me in the matter of the Twynham election.”
“I’m sure.” Isobel’s smile was almost saucy, but of all the Balfour sisters, she knew best when to keep her own counsel. She did not mention the Duke of Caversham again until they arrived at the ball.
Georgiana Whitby was flitting energetically from one end of the ballroom to the other, dressed in frilled pink and attended by several breathless gentlemen. One of these attendants wasted no time in asking Isobel to dance, and the would-be wallflower was whisked away almost too fast for Selina to hear her whispered warning:
“He’s behind you. Don’t forget your political principles.”
She turned, thus forewarned, to
