Page 31 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“Isn’t it all lovely?” Dessie whispered, one arm looped through hers.

“Lovely isn’t quite the word.”

“Come now, Ophelia. Surely—”

“I mean it isn’t word enough. Dessie, I think I finally understand Daddy. I am awed.”

Dessie giggled. “I know!” Then she made herself serious. “Everyone is going to ask for an introduction tonight. Poor Lynch is going to spend his whole evening leading young men your way.”

“Oh, I hope not.”

“Nothing to be done about it now. Anyway, you know how to behave. But we should have a signal.”

“A signal?”

“If it is a fortune-hunter, I will tap my nose like this.” She demonstrated. “If it is a garden-variety lecher, I will cough discreetly.”

“What if it is simply a good-natured gentleman of moderate means who only wants a dance?”

Dessie’s brow furrowed. “A what?”

She gave Dessie’s arm a slap. Then they stepped into the busy ladies’ parlor, a garden of floral perfumes, where the antique furnishings were sky blue and the ladies’ dresses created a waltzing rainbow as the wearers flitted about, checking each other’s hems and hairpins. Dessie introduced the few ladies who Ophelia did not yet know. They all exchanged compliments, many of which were sincere. The night was full of promise. Ophelia refused to acknowledge the crescendo of minor chords sounding in her ears.

*

Ophelia took note that His Grace, Robin Wormsley, the seventh Duke of Trentham, was in fine form this evening—exquisitely haughty, peer-of-the-realm form. His evening attire was so impeccably correct, he made other men look shabby. He was that other Trentham.

In three hours, he had not deigned to notice the Earl of Lynchford’s party. No, that was not entirely true. Once, while Ophelia was dancing with an obvious nose-tap, she caught a glimpse of Trentham talking to Lynch. The rest of the evening, he had cleaved to a cluster of stodgy older men including the marquess. He had danced with two of the matrons, one younger woman who had smiled at him so hard Ophelia could see her white teeth from across the ballroom, and one plain young woman who had a limp, though it appeared somehow less pronounced when he led her in a slow waltz. When he wasn’t doing his duty on the dance floor or surrounding himself with the stuffiest of peers, he was engaged in paying dogged attention to the evening’s honoree.

He danced with Lady Elizabeth twice. Twice. At her coming out.

Ophelia had read this script. Tomorrow he would send flowers and a card. The following day he would pay Lady Elizabeth a short, chaperoned call, during which he would sit beside her and murmur polite compliments that would make even the marchioness’ heart flutter. He would invite the young lady for a drive in Hyde Park. She and her parents would attend the opera in Trentham’s box. In a few weeks, the banns would be read.

It was difficult to pretend she was enjoying the ball, but pretend she did.

After an irritating waltz with a discreet cough who pulled her too close on the turns, Ophelia retreated to the safety and comfort of Dessie and Lady Melvin.

“How are you finding Caldwell’s Secret?”

Lady Melvin smiled. “I like the earl well enough. But the plot is too implausible.”

“That he could row a boat that far without a rest?”

“More that he could not guess that the shepherdess was Lady Jeannette.”

“What!” Ophelia gaped, then laughed. “Oh, serves me right for not reading those last three pages.”

After they promised to continue trading novels, Lady Melvin drifted away. Ophelia made the mistake of sighing.

“Are you not enjoying yourself?” Dessie asked. Then she sighed too. “It is a bit much.” She flicked her hand. “All this. Sometimes it’s exhausting.”

“It’s a long way back to William the Conqueror.”

“I know!”

“Were there Wormsleys at Hastings, do you suppose?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Maybe fathers of Wormsleys.”