“A treat.” Tommy licked her lips as she tottered away from the receiving line. “A soft, succulent peach of a girl. A ripe, plump, dare I say juicy—”
Chloe snorted. “You’re lucky only I can hear you now.”
“And I,” the Duke of Faircliffe said. “I am less lucky.”
“Pah,” Tommy said. “You have your own peach right here. Take her to the refreshment table for a nice cup of gin while I charm the stockings off my future father-in-law.”
“Please leave his stockings alone,” Faircliffe murmured. “Which direction is the gin?”
Chloe hooked her arm through his and led him toward the refreshments.
Tommy patted her wiry white wig and peered in all directions before hobbling toward the York family.
“I suppose you young things plan to dance until dawn,” she quavered at Mr. and Mrs. York in lieu of a greeting.
They exchanged startled glances. Likely because, according to the journal Graham kept on the Yorks, the MP and his wife were rarely seen within arm’s reach of one another. There was no recorded instance of them dancing together.
“Young love,” Tommy said with a shake of her head, then turned to Philippa. “Why, aren’t you just the sweetest thing with your pinchable cheeks and all this lace. Is it your come-out tonight?”
“It is not her come-out,” Mrs. York snapped. “That is Philippa, whom you have seen every Thursday afternoon for several months in a row—”
“Not lately,” Mr. York said. “Didn’t you forbid her from having friends some weeks ago?”
“I?” Mrs. York turned to him in affront. “Is it notyourambition that requires Philippa’s future husband to be a member of Parliament or eligible for the House of Lords?”
“My political ambition is not half so grasping as your social ambition,” Mr. York shot back. “If I have to hear one more word about how mortifying you find our lack of title, and how all of your hopes are pinned upon a bookish wallflower who after five long seasons cannot even…”
Good God. Tommy sent Philippa a horrified glance. Wasthistwaddle what Philippa heard all day when she was at home?
Philippa lifted one shoulder almost imperceptibly, as if to say she had mastered the art of blocking out their voices long ago.
“You look beautiful,” Tommy whispered. “Delectable, some might say.”
“You’re the only one who might say,” Philippa whispered back, letting the tips of her fingers brush Tommy’s. “And shh.”
If Tommy were Baron Vanderbean right now instead of Great-Aunt Wynchester, she could pull Philippa into her arms the moment the music began and—
“…at least Captain Northrup isEnglish,” Mrs. York finished, as though settling an age-old argument. “What good is Baron Vanderbean? He’s ineligible for Parliament, and just barely considered bon ton. It’s a fine thing he isn’t present tonight, or I daresay Philippa would make calf’s eyes at him and spoil her chances with Northrup.”
“Just because he’s to be a viscount doesn’t mean Northrup will take his seat in the House of Lords,” Mr. York said. “We should limit the pool to active statesmen. The Speaker of the House is a future viscount, and he’s in want of a wife.”
“He’s not in want of a wife,” Mrs. York said in exasperation. “He’s inmourningfor one. Who knows when he’ll wed again! Northrup is the bird in hand. He’s standing up with Philippa for the very first dance.”
“I suppose he’ll stand up with all of the other unmarried ladies for every other dance,” said Mr. York.
“He will and should, as is proper. But thefirstdance is symbolic.” Mrs. York turned jubilant eyes on her daughter. “The wait is almost over, darling. Tomorrow, I expect the captain to pay a formal call upon your father.”
“Well, where is he, then?” Tommy barked. “Hasn’t forgotten about our dear Pippa, has he? That’s the orchestra setting up. You might want to go and put a bug in his ear, lest your captain forget all about his grand symbolic gesture.”
Alarmed, Mrs. York glanced over her shoulder at the receiving line, which now contained only Damaris and her mother. At the edge of the dance floor, Northrup stood among a clump of admirers. He puffed up his chest and spoke more heartily than usual, clearly intending to be observed.
“Well!” Mrs. York harrumphed and hooked her hand in her husband’s arm. “Come, Mr. York. We cannot allow his new airs to cause him to shirk his duty to Philippa.”
“Dear me,” Philippa said emotionlessly. “I am so upset.”
“Go on then,” Tommy barked at Philippa’s parents. “Bring that soon-to-be viscount to heel. I can play duenna to this pip until you’ve put things to rights.”
Mrs. York looked as though she might say something, but a violinist took that moment to draw her bow across a string to tune her instrument. With renewed haste, Mrs. York dragged her husband across the ballroom toward Captain Northrup.
