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Lady Marwood’s lips twitched.
“Can I resist showing off my delightful wife?” Lord Marwood asked. “More to the point, should I?” He shook his head, as if the absurdity of the question didn’t warrant an answer.
“Are you expecting—” Grace bit back her words just before Sebastian’s name fell from her lips. “Expecting more guests?”
“Who can keep track of anybody in this . . . abundance?” Lady Marwood said. “Is there someone you particularly want to see?”
“No one,” Grace began.
Her mother said in a sly voice, “Only a certain young naturalist recently returned to the city.”
Grace managed a weak chuckle, but was it too much to ask for a rhinoceros stampede?
“That gentleman is currently engaged in conversation with Lord and Lady Blakemere.” The viscount tipped his head toward a corner of the room, where Mason chatted with a blond man and a woman with vibrantly red hair.
Grace’s stomach gave a slight jump, which was something of a relief. Thank goodness she wasn’t entirely inured to Mason’s presence.
“It’s the work of a moment to gain his attention. Especially,” Lord Marwood added with a grin, “if it paves the road toward tender feelings.”
“You must never stifle your feelings,” the viscountess said with a sage nod. “It’s a sentiment that ensures a full house every night at the Imperial.”
“My thanks,” Grace said quickly, “but that isn’t—”
Before she could stop him, Lord Marwood strode across the ballroom. Straight toward Mason.
Chapter 17
Don’t stare. Look anywhere else other than him. Oh, isn’t that a pretty potted fern? Yes, it’s a fine example of . . . Adiantum capillus-veneris, with its clusters of bipinnate fronds.
But it was no use. Grace’s gaze kept returning to the mortifying sight of Lord Marwood talking to Mason, and nodding in her direction with an encouraging smile. God preserve her from well-intentioned people.
For his part, Mason glanced over at her with an expression that might have actually been eagerness. Might have been. Yet it was impossible to know if he was merely acting interested for the benefit of his wealthy and well-connected host, or if he genuinely desired to search out her company. Knots of apprehension formed in her muscles. Memories of past mortifications flashed in her mind—men at balls just like this one snickering at her or staring at her like she was some variety of tree fungus.
She swallowed around a wave of nausea.
“He’s a fine man, Lord Marwood,” Grace’s mother said.
“Erp.” Grace watched the whole scene between the viscount and Mason as though watching the world’s most humiliating pantomime.
Her and Mason’s eyes met.
She managed a small wave. Please don’t feel obligated to talk to me, she hoped her wave communicated. Her body sparked with the need to bolt, but she gripped hard on the reins of her impulse, and instead kept her feet fastened to the floor.
Mason said something to Lord Marwood before bowing to the viscount, as well as Lord and Lady Blakemere. Then he detached from the group and headed in her direction.
“I do believe I need some refreshment,” Grace’s mother said. She moved on, leaving Grace alone to await Mason’s arrival. Time moved with agonizing slowness as he neared.
“Lady Grace.” He bowed, and she inclined her head.
“Mas—I mean, Mr. Fredericks.” Her voice was remarkably steady, and she tried to take comfort in that.
He looked exceedingly well in his simple but finely tailored evening clothes, his sandy hair brushed forward, and his green eyes bright.
“I’m exceptionally glad to see you here,” he said, then added in a confiding tone, “Chatting with Lord and Lady Blakemere is pleasant enough, but neither one of them have any understanding about patterns of seasonal migration.”
“For humans, or for animals?”
He chuckled. “Animals, of course, but surely a lengthy treatise could be written about the migratory patterns of gently bred Englishmen.”
“Certainly,” she said wryly, “the plumage changes depending on whether one is In Town or, as they say, rusticating.”
