“Hewants you?” Harriet choked, quite rudely.
“Desperately,” Philippa groaned, as if it were an inconvenience to be desired by Lord Alexander. Harriet suspected this was at least partly for show. Her sister enjoyed toying with men, and if rumors were to be believed, Lord Alexander was a formidable playfellow.
Philippa languidly turned her body away from the man. Harriet surmised this to be a calculated move, one that made men even more interested in approaching her.
The attention of Lord Alexander was a boon, even if Philippa acted otherwise. To be sure, he was a duke’s second son. But a duke’s son is a duke’s son, even without the rumors of his brother’s ill-health. Even if he was known to be an obdurate bachelor—with rumors that he debased himself by dealing in matters of commerce—Lord Alexander Stirling was one of the most striking men to grace a London ballroom since at least before the war. He was, undeniably, the most beautiful man Harriet had ever seen. It was embarrassing, for some peculiar reason.
Philippa turned her eyes up to Harriet over the rim of her champagne glass. “Is he coming this way?”
Harriet dreaded having to look over her sister’s shoulder again, dreaded having to watch him with any level of attention, or being in his path at all. But sisterly duty snapped her head back up to see Lord Alexander striding elegantly and leisurely toward them. Out of nowhere, her mind formed a distinct image of him walking just as calmly out of a house on fire, and for some reason the scene made her shiver.
“Well? Is he coming?”
Oh, right. Philippa.
“Quite” was all Harriet could manage, for Lord Alexander was only a few yards away at this point.
Philippa adjusted her posture, dabbed carefully at her lips, and glanced down at her bodice to make sure it was sufficiently in danger of exposing her nipples. Then she turned to him, thankfully blocking Harriet from view.
“Lady Ellerton.”
“Lord Alexander, may I in—”
“I have a request of my own first.” Harriet swallowed a laugh. No one interrupted Philippa, least of all a man. Harriet couldn’t wait to hear Philippa’s retort.
“Yes, my lord?”
Yes, my lord? Philippa did not “Yes, my lord” any man!
“This dance. Then you may ask of me whatever you wish.” Harriet rolled her eyes behind her sister’s back. Surely Philippa was not persuaded by this flummery.
“Gladly, my lord.” Harriet took a sharp breath. She’d heard stories of Lord Alexander’s charm before, and certainly the man was handsome, but his ploy struck her as unimpressive. Perhaps his words held more sway when he was actually looking at you.
“Harriet, do you mind?” Philippa turned and held out her half-full champagne glass reluctantly. It was the apology in her eyes that removed the sting of her action. Harriet simply reached for the glass and forced the smile up to her eyes as Philippa was led to the dance floor.
Harriet supposed she ought to take advantage of her solitude to seek out Mr. Dawkins. No one was even keeping up the pretense that she required a chaperone, and so Harriet wove her way through the ball with ease. She tried to search the room methodically, but people keptmoving, as they were wont to do at balls, she supposed. She decided to stake out a spot with a good view of the stairway, in case he hadn’t yet arrived.
Seeking out a man so desperately made her feel more than a little doltish. But she pushed the self-recrimination away. He was, after all, the raison d’être for her attendance. Harriet was giddy at the idea of finally getting to speak with him in person, and not having to wait days or even weeks for his correspondence. Never had she felt so connected, so understood by someone as she did by Mr. Dawkins. And so, she returned to her almost pathetic search.
All she had to go off of was a likeness of him she’d seen drawn in a periodical a few years back, her only image of the man she’dbeen corresponding with for so long. Of course, she had no idea how accurate the depiction was. And though she’d hinted she’d be in attendance this evening, he still presumed her to be a man.
Harriet stationed herself against a column. Nearby was a rather sizable group of men—although, Harriet thought to herself, any more than one man felt like a sizable group to her—only a few of whom she recognized. She settled in to shamelessly eavesdrop and took a few sips of Philippa’s champagne; listening to men, after all, was usually quite boring. They were horrible sources of gossip, preferring to prattle on about horseflesh, land, and their deuced clubs. But occasionally someone used a word Harriet hadn’t heard before; men were allowed so many more words.
“She isn’t your type at all, I’m afraid,” Lord Wexler, a handsome young buck, proclaimed.
“And what is my type, Wex? Pray tell,” rejoined Lord Trenton, a man Philippa had warned Caroline away from at their last ball.
“Well, for one thing, she’s not like your usual dirty puzzles. She’s quite the tease, in fact.”
A what?
Another man, one Harriet didn’t know, chimed in then. “’Tis true. No one’s seen that monosyllable. Her sister is very protective too; doesn’t let her out of her sight.”
“You, Trenton, will not be the first to ride that quim.”
Harriet inched closer, her mind racing as she tried to keep up with their words. Alas, the men had moved on to talking about thismystery woman riding something. Harriet was quite confused about the jump to horsemanship.
Dirty puzzle? Is that what he had called the woman? Monosyllable? Quim? She briefly considered smashing her reputation on the cold, hard, terrazzo floor, marching up to Lord Wexler—to whom she had never been introduced—and demanding he repeat himself and explain every word he’d just said. Groups of men were allowed such fun, vulgar phrases, phrases that were so difficult to find again, certainly not in the books Father kept in his library. Harriet’s hand again itched for a pencil or quill. Surely somewhere in this house—
