Page 35 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

While Lynch set off to the portrait hall in search of his wife, Trentham went to the conservatory. A drink might help his headache. Not champagne, though; he was not in the mood for bubbles. A glass of port would do it, but there wouldn’t be port.

The room was crowded with overheated guests, milling around long tables on which were displayed an array of tiny…somethings—sandwiches most likely, champagne, and two punch bowls. Despite the gagging thought of so much sweetness, Trentham helped himself to a cup of punch.

He turned. And found himself looking straight at Miss Delancey and Dessie, a stone’s toss away, champagne glasses in hand. They had spotted him also.

Well, he wasn’t going to give Lynch’s wife the cut direct. He made his way to them and bowed.

“Good evening to the two most beautiful ladies at the ball.”

Miss Delancey’s expression did not change.

Dessie sniffed. “What a disappointing lack of originality, Your Grace. If Ophelia and I have heard that once, we’ve heard it a hundred times. And so has every other pair of ladies chatting together at entertainments since the beginning of entertaining. I suspect you said the same to Dowager Maryhurst and Lady Walpole.”

“You would be wrong.” He rubbed the corner of his twitching eye with one finger, worried he was developing a tic. “I said the two most distinguished ladies.”

Dessie laughed. Miss Delancey did not so much as smile. He sipped his drink.

“Is that punch?” Dessie demanded.

“I’m thirsty.” The statement sounded defensive.

“So am I. But this champagne is not sitting well. Excuse me. I’m going to fetch a cup.”

“I will for you,” he said quickly.

Shaking her head, Dessie said, “That is very gallant, but I can manage.”

She slipped away before he could protest more vigorously, leaving him alone with Miss Delancey, who still had not spoken a word.

They stood a moment in silence. That was telling. They’d always bubbled over with talk before.

He began awkwardly. “You are enjoying yourself, I see.”

“Do you?” One eyebrow went up.

“Yes, I was worried your ankle might give you trouble. With so much dancing.”

“How very considerate of you.” Her tone of voice could freeze a lake in summer.

“Considerate?”

“To spare me any additional such exertion.”

If only she would smile, so that he could pretend she was sparring with him. But she was not teasing. Of course, she’d expected him to ask for a dance. He’d kissed her!

Dash it! She was hurt. Which meant that she cared for him. Or had been starting to care. His conscience battered him: the fault was entirely his, for allowing this to happen, for encouraging it, simply because he found her delightful. He hadn’t considered her feelings. He’d been thinking only of himself.

He’d learned nothing in all these years, had he?

He should have put an end to this sooner. The swifter he ended it, the kinder. And he knew how best to end it quickly. Surely, she would not put up with an unrepentant rogue.

He lowered his head closer to hers and whispered, “Mauve. The word I was searching for in the library.” He let his gaze sweep her décolletage, linger, then raised it to settle, pointedly, on her lips. “A delectable…color.”

She flushed, of course, and her posture went even more rigid. If she had been harboring any hope his intentions toward her had been honorable, he’d just squelched them. Now she’d understand that he wouldn’t dance with a commoner in public, only take liberties in private.

But instead of a stinging set down, of which he had been certain she was capable, she merely searched him with her eyes until it became uncomfortable. Then, very quietly, she asked, “Who are you, Trentham?”

He heard more curiosity than pain. She continued to examine him as though she could see through his skin to his soul. What was she finding?