“What happened?”
“Hmm? Oh, they got married and she became mistress of half Derbyshire.”
Heaven forbid.
And in any case, the Marquess of Winterbourne’s estate was Buckinghamshire.
All of it.
A fribble?
Surely Miss Penrose had meantfashionable?
Jack caught his partner’s white-gloved hand and whirled her with a swish.
Earlier, he had hoped to entice Miss Penrose with a Scotch reel – one of his best – as she was no doubt miffed he hadn’t asked her to dance thus far, but she’d concealed herself behind a formidable coven of full-bosomed matrons in the supper room and this rogue had learned from experience to choose his battles wisely.
Instead, he’d approached the Master of Ceremonies for introductions to a few Helston ladies who’d been only too pleased to stand with him.
He’d mused in the carriage that the ball would be a sedate affair, full of shy country misses and ruddy squires feeding their hounds beneath the table, but hearty laughter and witty chat ran riot below the elegant chandelier whilst young girls giggled over glasses of ratafia in the corner and no one gave a herring if dance steps were mangled.
The ball was unruly and without affectation, and never had his one-off entry fee of five shillings for “unsubscribed foreigners” been so well spent – despite the confiscation of his sapphire-blue handkerchief at the door.
“Has Mr Miggens been with you long, my lord?” asked Miss Treherne rather breathlessly as they skipped a turn.
Whoever asked after a valet when dancing with a marquess?
Intriguing.
“For a year or so. Where did you meet him, Miss Treherne?” The lady wore a frock of Egyptian-brown, her graceful arm movements and sophisticated hairstyle at odds with her feet.
“The Earl of Fowlmere, his former employer, is my distant cousin…thrice removed…by marriage.”
Gads, the clutch-fisted earl he’d rescued Miggens from. Poor woman. “A delightful fellow, incredibly…prudent.”
Miss Treherne glanced up sharply but he flashed an innocent smile.
They trampled the room, swapping partners and colliding with foxed matriarchs until, during the pastourelle segment, he ended up holding hands with a Mr Trenwarren from Truro, who he had to say danced quite well.
Finally depositing Miss Treherne at the punch table, he immediately sought out Miss Penrose, chatting intently with a medium-sized fellow who’d ferrety eyes, a ginger pate and ruby face.
But no matter.
“Miss Penrose? Might I request this dance?” He proffered an arm, eyes hooded, a long-refined seductive look that women found irresistible.
“No, thank you, my lord. I’m somewhat fatigued.”
No?
He reeled in his empty arm.
No one had rejected him since the Duchess of Ashton’s ball.
May the 22nd, 1812.
A Friday.
And lest we forget, he simply hadn’t noticed the lady’s bandaged ankle.
