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“But I thought you would not wish me to go, given—”

“Given that I must needs find myself a mistress? Why no, my dear. I see no reason to deprive you of pleasure.” He pulled out her chair, and if it had been anyone other than Darby, she’d have thought there was rage in the gesture.

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Dancing Like a Fool

Lady Felicia Saville felt a mild glow of pleasure. By any reasonable assessment, she was the most important guest at the Duchess of Savington’s ball. Of the seven patronesses of Almack’s—the young matrons who could make or break a reputation—she was only one to be in London this early in the season.

It was up to her and her alone, to make or break the reputations of provincials who sought entry to the ton. So far, the ball had been disappointingly thin as regards such caterpillars. She had declined only one request for a voucher to Almack’s, and that didn’t involve a delicate weighing of negotiations and favors. Mrs. Selina Davenport had traded on their very small acquaintance, but Felicia felt no more than a fillip of interest when refusing her request for a voucher. The woman was virtually unclothed; what her fellow patronesses would make of Mrs. Davenport needed no intuition, and she would never be granted a second voucher even if Felicia had promised her one.

Her cousin pranced through the crowd toward her. Fool for Love

329

“Bunge,” she said, holding out her hand. “It is such a pleasure.” It wasn’t really, but the Honorable Gerard Bunge generally had slanderous news to report and that fact made him a palatable companion.

“Felicia, my dear, Simon Darby has taken a wife!”

She waved her fan idly, as if the news were old to her. In fact she was riveted with interest. If seven young matrons controlled the female side of the ton, Simon Darby was their male counterpart. His physical beauty and exquisite sense of dress meant that his attention to a young woman (or lack thereof) was as sought after as Brummell’s, and served the same purpose as Almack’s vouchers.

“I admit surprise. I would have thought Darby had long ago decided against the marital state,” she said languidly.

“Took my advice.” Bunge’s chest swelled out a little. “I told him to marry an heiress, and that’s just what he did. Haven’t seen her yet. Should be here tonight though.”

“Of course!” Felicia said, belatedly putting two and two together. “I did hear of Lady Rawlings’s happy condition.”

“Exactly.” Bunge twitched the seam of his crimson stockings straight. “Betting is seventy to one in White’s that the child will be male.”

“Ludicrous. Who can possibly know such a thing as the child’s gender?”

“Betting on the child’s father is a great deal more lively. Last I looked at the book, Rawlings himself was only leading by a faint margin, and that after he died in his wife’s bedchamber!”

“I suppose Darby didn’t have a difficult time finding himself an heiress,” Felicia said. “What a pity he didn’t wait until the season. It would have been such an interesting courtship to watch. Do you suppose that his new father-inlaw is in trade?”

“I suggested the woolly breeder,” Bunge said with an 330 Eloisa

James

eruption of giggles. “But no. He married a daughter of the late Earl of Holkham. The man apparently left her an unentailed estate in Wiltshire.”

Felicia considered it a requisite part of her duties as a hostess of Almack’s to memorize Debrett’s Peerage. “Let’s see,”

she said slowly, “that must be the elder daughter, unless Darby stole the younger girl from the schoolroom.”

“Didn’t hear anything about her age,” said Bunge. “But it must be the elder because she inherited the estate.”

“But that girl is deformed,” Felicia said with a little gasp.

“She was never brought to London for a debut, you know.”

“Perhaps it was a love match,” Bunge suggested. “Overlooked her deformity due to passion. Or if not passion . . . hard currency.”

“Do stop tittering,” Felicia said with all the freedom of a second cousin. “It is such an unattractive habit. I wish I could remember what was wrong with the elder daughter—”

But everyone was turning about and looking at the ballroom entrance, where the butler had just announced, “Lady Henrietta Darby and Mr. Darby.”

“Nothing wrong that I can see,” Bunge observed. “She’s a ripe one.” Lady Henrietta stood next to her husband wearing a gown whose panels floated about her like gossamer wings. Tendrils of gold curled gently around her face. Even from across the room, it was obvious that her eyes were a luscious blue. Bunge could taste the envy in his mouth. “Trust Darby to come up smelling like roses.”