“Elizabeth, what is wrong?”
She gestured toward a corner of the room. “May we talk over there?”
Concern for her grew in his gut. “Of course.” He set the cup on the beverage table and offered her his arm. She took it and he led her toward the corner. “Now tell me what is wrong.”
Beth held up her arm and nodded at the dance card. “It is empty. I have had one dance with Ludlow, but no one else has even asked.”
Michael fingered the card. Indeed, all the lines but two—claimed by the marquess—were blank. “Perhaps they know they have no opportunity with you.”
Her scowl deepened. “That has never been a problem before. Before”—she paused and looked around again—“all that with Robert, my card was always full.”
“We knew his behavior would have an effect on all of us—”
“I did not think it would be this awful.”
Michael tried to respect the concerns of a debutante in her first season, but he could not quite see how—
“It’s as if I’m ruined.”
Ah.“Have you received a”—his brain fought for the phrase—“a cut direct?”
Beth shook her head. “No. But it is coming. I can feel it. Whenever I approach any of my friends, they are polite but move away quickly. I believe they are just waiting for one of theton’sdragons to do it.”
“Do you wish to leave?”
She glanced at her dance card again. “I cannot. Not until after the second dance. And it is too early.”
“Should I dance with you?”
Beth looked down again and her shoulders shook. For a moment, he thought she had begun to cry, but when she looked up, her eyes gleamed with mirth. “I’m sorry, Michael, but I’ve been your partner for the last two days. I value my feet more than that.”
“You little rotter.”
She hid her open laugh behind her hand. “Brother, I love you.” She slipped her hand around his elbow. “Have you asked anyone to dance?”
“I—” He grimaced. “No.”
“See, even you realize your feet are a danger to ladies’ slippers.” She looked around. “Besides, I don’t think Lady Clara has arrived yet.”
He gaped at her. “How did you—”
Beth squeezed his arm. “Naivétè does not become you. All the servants are talking about the endless questions you have been asking since Monday, and Rose has begun to mumble ominous threats about your curiosity. If you want to know so much about the lady, why not ask her yourself?”
“I would, if I could see her again. I thought she would be here tonight.”
“Why not court her?”
Michael stared at her. “I do not think—” He stopped. “I would like to know more first.”
Beth pulled away from him. “Let me see if she’s hiding in the ladies’ retiring suite. She does that sometimes when a crowd overwhelms her.”
He glanced around at the press of people on and around the ballroom floor. The entire area felt compressed with people and their chatter. “I can understand.”
Beth patted his arm. “I will return in a moment.”
Michael watched her go, a knot of anxiety forming in his gut at the thought of seeing Lady Clara again. He had not had a reaction to a woman like this in more than four years, not since Eleanor Carlson had enchanted and abandoned him. Wariness seemed to entwine into every other emotion of the evening, along with dread and more than a touch of fear. The last time he had been at a ball, the last time he had danced—prior to his lessons with his sister—had been on Ellie’s arm.
For the past four years, however, he had met women only in a variety of pubs and gaming hells, his tastes running to buxom, gregarious, and plump wenches who sold their bed for the night. He relished their warmth, their comfort—and above all—their honesty. Even when they tried to deceive him or win money from him, they both knew what they were about. The ones who had robbed him the morning after had not destroyed him as much as the sweet-faced Ellie, who had promised eternal love and a lifelong marriage only to bolt when she finally realized he was destined for a vicarage and not a life at Ashton Park.
