“I thought you might be in here.” Lark’s heart-shaped face appeared in the mirror beside hers.
Beatrice hadn’t even heard her enter.
“You danced,” Lark added, unable to disguise her satisfaction. “A waltz, no less.”
“Lord Hawkins only asked because Dash has been neglecting his fraternal duties.” Beatrice sighed. “He’s determined to compensate.”
Lark’s brows lifted. “He did not look as though he were compensating.”
“That,” Beatrice said dryly, “is because he performs obligation exceedingly well.” She replaced her gloves. “Has Lady Barrington released you?”
“For the moment. She is occupied with comparing Lord Blackwell's calendar for the coming weeks with Theodosia’s.”
Beatrice exhaled faintly. “An earl. I was certain Lady Barrington would settle for nothing short of a duke as a son-in-law.”
“Blackwell is not merely an earl,” Lark pointed out. “He is richer than half the dukes in England.”
“Dash is a duke,” Beatrice said. “And unmarried again.”
Lark met her eyes in the mirror. “Unmarried, yes. Available?” Her brows lifted. “Hardly.”
Beatrice could only shake her head. “True.” Mrs. Bloomington had yet to accept any of her brother’s attempts at courting, but he still showed no signs of giving up. At this rate, he might continue tending to her garden until they were both old and frail.
Beatrice glanced over her shoulder toward the door, drying her hands. “Would it not be prudent for these mothers to consider a gentleman’s character in addition to his title?”
“Prudent? Certainly. Probable?” Lark gave a small shake of her head. “Not especially.”
Then her expression sobered.
“But I did not follow you to discuss Lord Blackwell. There is a problem.”
Beatrice’s attention sharpened. “What sort of problem?”
“Hatherleigh.”
Beatrice stilled.
“You said he was the gentleman who followed Lady Rensleight onto the terrace.”
“Yes.”
“He has moved on.” Lark’s gaze flicked toward the opposite side of the ballroom. “Miss Eleanor Whitcombe.”
“But she is scarcely seventeen.”
“Not even approved for the waltz. And yet he convinced her to take the floor.” Lark paused. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.” A faint glance. “Though Lord Hawkins is, admittedly, distracting.”
Beatrice did not indulge the implication. Instead, she frowned, vexed with herself for allowing her attention to wander.
Beatrice remembered the girl well—pale taffeta, excessive lace, ribbons arranged in earnest optimism. Bright enough. Eager to please.
Far too eager.
And that, unfortunately, was precisely the sort of eagerness a man like Hatherleigh would prey upon.
“Best see what he’s up to, then.” Beatrice nudged her friend back toward the ballroom.
And since Mr. Hatherleigh had not grown inventive since the last ball, it took no time at all for Beatrice and Lark to locate him.
