The gentleman's gaze flickered to Eveline for the briefest moment before skittering away as if burned. "Surely you cannot mean to waste such lovely music standing among the palms?"
"I find the palms excellent company," Harriet replied. "They neither gossip nor make unwelcome advances."
Mr. Ashworth's face reddened. "I merely thought...well... it seems a shame."
"What seems a shame," Eveline interjected smoothly, "is a gentleman who cannot accept a lady's polite refusal. Unless, of course, the concept of consent is as foreign to you as basic courtesy appears to be."
The young man's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish before he executed a stiff bow and retreated. Several nearby matrons who had been pretending not to eavesdrop suddenly found urgent need to adjust their gloves or examine their fans.
"That was perhaps unwise," Harriet murmured, though her eyes danced with suppressed mirth.
"Wisdom fled the moment I entered this ballroom. I might as well embracefolly with enthusiasm." Eveline drained her champagne in a most unladylike fashion. "Besides, what more can they do to me? I'm already ruined, cast out, a cautionary tale for young ladies who dare to possess both intellect and independence."
"They could make things worse."
"Could they? I've already achieved the social equivalent of a Greek tragedy. The chorus of gossips has pronounced my fate, the gods of propriety have turned their faces from me. All that remains is for me to deliver a soliloquy about the cruel vagaries of fortune before exiting stage left."
"You're mixing your theatrical metaphors."
"I'm mixing everything. My metaphors, my prospects, my..." She broke off as another wave of whispers reached them, this time accompanied by titters of laughter that held all the warmth of winter wind.
"...Lord Hatherleigh says she was quite disheveled..."
"...emerging from His Grace's private chambers..."
"...always did think herself above her station..."
"...bluestockings always come to bad ends..."
The laughter that followed this last observation was particularly galling, coming as it did from Miss Hastings, who Eveline knew for a fact couldn't conjugate a Latin verb if her life depended upon it.
"I believe I need air," Eveline said abruptly, her carefully maintained composure beginning to crack like ice under spring sun.
"The terrace doors are just there..."
"No." The thought of fleeing to the terrace, of being seen to retreat, was unbearable. "No, I won't give them the satisfaction of driving me out. I'll stand here among the palms like a botanical specimen if necessary, but I won't run."
"Excellent," said a calm masculine voice behind them. "Though I've always found that palms, while decorative, make poor conversationalists."
Eveline turned to find Theodore Browne standing with his usual understated elegance, his evening clothes impeccable without ostentation. His hazel eyes behind their wire-rimmed spectacles held both sympathy and something that might have been admiration.
"Mr. Browne," she said, surprised into genuine pleasure. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"I could say the same." He executed a perfect bow that somehow managed to encompass both ladies equally and which was a subtle but pointed reminder to anyone watching that he saw nothing scandalous in acknowledging Eveline publicly. "Lady Carlisle is my second cousin, or perhaps my third cousin. I can never quite recall which, despite her annual attempts to explain the connection at Christmas dinners."
"Family gatherings must be wonderfully confusing," Harriet observed, clearly charmed by his easy manner.
"Gloriously so. Last year I spent an entire evening calling Great-Aunt Agatha by the wrong name. She was too polite to correct me, which led to a fascinatingconversation about her apparently fictional stint as a missionary in Ceylon." His smile was self-deprecating. "But I suspect you ladies are not particularly interested in the Byzantine complexities of the Browne family tree."
"On the contrary," Eveline said, grasping at the lifeline of normal conversation. "Byzantine complexities are rather a specialty of mine."
"Of course they are." His expression grew more serious as he took in their isolated position and the careful distance other guests maintained. "Miss Whitcombe, might I be so bold as to request the honour of the next dance?"
The request fell into a moment of silence as the current set concluded. Several heads turned their way, fans lifting in anticipation of what promised to be excellent gossip fodder.
"That's very kind," Eveline began, "but I couldn't possibly..."
"Nonsense." His voice carried just enough volume to be overheard by their eager audience. "They are fools, Miss Whitcombe, every last one of them. Dance with me, and let them see you cannot be crushed by their petty judgments."
