Page 32 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“But they would be—” She caught herself and gave Dessie a frown. “Very funny.”

Neither of them laughed.

Dessie grumbled, “I’m surprised that he hasn’t…oh, well, I suppose he hasn’t had a chance. Your feet haven’t left the dance floor all evening. He couldn’t squeeze in if he tried.”

“But he hasn’t tried.” Her bereft tone made it obvious that she hadn’t heeded her sister’s warning. Dessie gave her a pitying look.

Ophelia squared her shoulders. “She is charming, isn’t she? Lady Elizabeth? Not what I expected.”

“I do like her,” Dessie said. “Though I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

Ophelia made herself smile, though she had to blink twice to recover from the threat of tears. A third Trentham had made an appearance tonight. She had not anticipated this one: sacrificial ram.

But that characterization was unfair to the both of them. This was a good outcome, all the way around.

“I like her, too.”

“Let’s go to the conservatory,” Dessie said brusquely, taking her arm. “I heard a rumor there is champagne.”

Chapter Twelve

Trentham should have been congratulating himself. He had not veered one step from his program. Everything was going just as he’d hoped. And that despite the fact that throughout the whole evening, at the edge of his field of vision, Miss Delancey swirled by again and again in the arms of yet another young blade. He’d swear an oath that her feet floated six inches above the floor.

He was glad, certainly, that his roué behavior, kissing her then ignoring her, had not dimmed her light. Her golden aura. She’d laugh if she heard him call it that—“Oh! Overdone, Mr. World-Class Flatterer!”—but the description fit. Good God, that gown. The satin shimmered in the gaslight, adding to her glow. The flair at her hips accentuated the slenderness of her waist. The bodice was “off-the-shoulder.” Tulle ruffles did all that was required to preserve modesty, but no man in the room was so lacking imagination he would not be ensnared.

Lynch would not be able to claw his way through his drawing room tomorrow; it would be so full of bouquets from her admirers.

However, none of this was any of Trentham’s concern. He had already picked out the very tasteful floral arrangement he would send to Lady Elizabeth. He’d even written the note to accompany it.

But for now, he had to deal with a pounding headache. He couldn’t leave early; that would be unpardonably rude. Yet if he didn’t get away from the music, the odor of sweat and too many competing perfumes, and the tapping, swishing feet, he might be ill.

What he needed to do was to talk to Lynch. His lodestar. Lynch would see what he was doing. Everyone saw it. Either Lynch would give him a quiet nod—or a kick in the trousers.

He left the ballroom and threaded his way through the halls, nodding, murmuring greetings, half lost in thought, looking for Lynch, hoping to find him without Dessie and Miss Delancey, so that he might get his bearings.

What he was doing made sense. Good sense. He would rescue Lady Elizabeth; she would redeem him. Fortunately, Lord Barrington seemed amenable. That had been Trentham’s biggest concern, that he might be aiming too high, that four years of irreproachable behavior had not been enough. If Barrington snubbed him, Chatterwick would have to follow suit, and he would have lost his chance with that chit too. But he’d aimed high. And Barrington had not snubbed him.

Combining the two families was a feat long overdue. There likely hadn’t been a Barrington-Wormsley wedding since before the civil war. The first one. Probably because his ancestors had supported Mathilda while the Barringtons were for Stephen—the usurper. But that was neither here nor there. He saw the old guard nodding approvingly when he led Lady Elizabeth out for the first set. And even the Dowager Maryhurst fleetingly lost her habitual scowl when he approached Lady Elizabeth for the cotillion. The match made too bloody much sense.

Except to him.

He’d danced the waltz with Felicity’s friend, the unfortunately club-footed Miss Cornelia. Why? To be kind? No. To keep himself from seeking out Miss Delancey? Not even that. But because rumor had it Barrington felt his daughter was too young to waltz.

Too young to waltz. Good God.

Dancing with Lady Elizabeth had been like dancing with Julia, his niece. There was no escaping the fact that, precociously well-mannered though she might be, Lady Elizabeth was a child. Gad, his head hurt.

Ah, but there was Lynch now. Alone, thank God. He was marching along near the hallway’s wall, a determined set to his chin. The wall was noticeably devoid of decoration, except for discolored areas where paintings must once have been displayed. Trentham dodged Lady Walpole with a bow from the shoulders and an “excuse me” and hurried toward him.

“Lynch.” He stepped in front of the man.

“Trentham. Have you seen Dessie?”

“You’ve misplaced her again?”

Lynch grimaced. “More likely she’s hiding from me.” His eyes flicked up. “But I suppose that gives me an excuse to step onto the terrace for a dip of snuff. Care to keep me company?”

“Always.”