CHAPTER 1
OCTOBER 1812
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, do not regard me as though I have suggested a most scandalous thing!” The Marchioness of Witham, better known in private as Aunt Sophia, let her ostrich feather fan fall in despair. “It is only a dance, Nancy.”
Nancy did not lower her gaze, nor did she soften her expression, which had been known to intimidate even the oldest duchesses in the kingdom. “This ballroom is filled with nothing but dandies and rakes. If you force me to waltz with one of them, I fear you shall have to scrape my remains off the parquet.”
The fan snapped shut. “That is not witty, Nancy.”
“Wasn’t it? I shall do better. Give me a moment. Besides, it is a fall ball. I would have been more eager if it were a ball during the Season.”
“I mean it.” Sophia’s face crumpled, though the effect was minimized by an excess of pearl-powder and the formidable structure of her headdress. “I am at my wits’ end. Three seasons. Three! And you remain as intractable as a cask of Highland whisky.”
Nancy ran a finger along the edge of her own dance card, which was as empty as a brand-new ledger. “A compliment, surely.”
“Twenty-two, and still you refuse every eligible bachelor presented to you. If your father were here?—”
“He would have joined me in the corner, drinking brandy and reciting Roman poetry until the house collapsed.”
“He would be heartbroken, Nancy. You know how he adores you. And he wishes?—”
“That I would marry a perfect Englishman and forget my mother’s blood.” Nancy smiled, but her eyes did not. “Luckily, I am an only child. No one else’s prospects are at risk.”
Sophia patted at her cheek, as though hoping to jar a fresh idea loose. “I despair.”
“There is always hope,” Nancy offered, with just enough Scottish burr to remind her aunt what hope had produced in the last generation of Gallaghers.
From across the crowded room, Lord Wortham approached with the loose-jointed enthusiasm of a Weimaraner let off its lead. Nancy’s lips parted in a silent prayer for deliverance, which arrived immediately in the form of Lord Wortham himself.
“Lady Nancy!” he announced. “What a dazzling vision you present this evening. I am quite undone.”
She considered informing him that she felt the same, in the sense of coming apart at the seams, but elected to preserve his fragile dignity. “How generous, my lord.”
“Not generous at all. Only accurate. Why, it is as though Apollo himself has sent you to torment me.”
“Do you mean Cupid?” Nancy asked.
“Cupid was never so elegant, nor so cruel,” Wortham replied with alarming sincerity. “May I have the honor of the next dance?”
Nancy made a great show of consulting her pristine card. “I’m so sorry. My card is full to bursting.”
He blinked at it. “I see.”
Sophia intervened, perhaps out of a sense of civic duty. “If I may, Lord Wortham—Nancy’s father expects her home before midnight. We have an early morning.”
“Ah!” said Wortham, visibly relieved to retreat. “The Duke of Neads is appropriately strict, I know it well. But perhaps?—”
“Perhaps the next assembly,” Sophia finished, fanning vigorously.
Wortham bowed himself away, sidestepping a passing tray of ratafia and nearly colliding with Lady Bessington. He would probably survive to try again. Most of them did.
Nancy flexed her fingers, which had begun to ache from restraint. “They do not improve with age, do they?”
“Who?” Sophia looked distracted, scanning the room for some other, more compliant niece.
“The men.”
“Oh, Nancy.” Sophia drew her closer, voice dropping to a tragic whisper. “You must try. Just once, try.”
