There was absolutely nothing that Peter could do except offer to dance with Henrietta. Outside, he was all proper manners and staid bows; inside, he was convulsed with laughter. A quick survey showed a similar exchange between Charlotte Bigelowe and another familiar young lady, while Rose sailed forth on the arm of a rather bewildered Charles Pipperly.
Peter didn’t worry about Rose with Idiot Pipperly’s brother. Of the two of them, Rose would come out ahead—besides, he heard she was privately engaged to an engineer in Istanbul. Very wise, to choose a man with a career.
Peter led Henrietta onto the floor. “Your friend achieved the desired result, but her execution left a little to be desired.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Henrietta twinkled at him. “She’s a bit nervous, and thus using the same line every time. But don’t worry”—a glance of thorough mischief—“we will have plenty more opportunities to practice.”
“Snaring all the gentlemen of London in your net?”
“Oh no!” Henrietta fluttered her lashes. “Only the pleasant ones, you see.”
“Pity your selection is so scarce,” Peter said, and Henrietta threw back her head and laughed.
The musicians struck the first chords and Peter bowed in tempo, putting out his palm for Henrietta to press for the promenade.
“Only the gentlemen”—she glanced over, teasing—“who can follow the tempo. Just like this. We don’t dance with gentlemen who are foxed.”
Not mincing words, was she. Hughes was usually foxed, and she’d noticed he wasn’t. They circled their partners to the left.
“Good thing I never touch the stuff,” Peter quipped when they met again. Henrietta laughed.
They executed several quick turns and exchanges, Peter watching his partner closely. Her features were similar to Rose’s, too strong-boned for conventional prettiness, although Henrietta was taller and more fair. All four Thompson women were full bosomed; one just noticed Henrietta’s because she was otherwise slim, and she held her shoulders square and her back straight.
“You might not have known it”—Henrietta quirked her eyebrow at him as they came together and apart—“but we are always at home”—bow to the opposite—“on Mondays and Thursdays.”
He had attended their at-homes all winter, as regular as boats through the canals. She was twitting him.
Promenade together. Peter clutched his chest. “You wound me, fair lady!”
Henrietta laughed.
Peter did not fool himself into thinking that Henrietta was flirting with him, personally. She was reflecting his energy back to him, the sort who thrived on challenge and quick pacing.
“Do you know who you are like?” He passed her to the next gentleman.
“Who?” Now alternate on the right.
“Lord Francis.” Do-si-do left as Henrietta laughed.
She ducked in a curtsey. “Thank you, kind sir.” Do-si-do right.
“You’re welcome, but it’s hardly a compliment.”
Henrietta’s peals of merriment made everyone in the adjoining quartets look over and smile in return. Peter took her hands and they sashayed down the line.
They had a breathless few minutes while the new top couples came down.
Henrietta pressed slightly closer than decorum allowed, and her next words came out low and sharp. “You have been toying with Celia’s emotions. I won’t have it.”
Company persona indeed. Zounds. The girl carried daggers under those smiles.
“I explained everything to Celia,” Peter replied, equally low.
“Not properly.”
She was probably right. Peter was trained to make plans for men who followed orders promptly, not manage ladies with polite questions.
“I’m tangled up in something.” Peter adjusted them into their next position. “I’m afraid there’s trouble coming, and I don’t want her mixed up in it.”
