Lillian looked and saw a small circle of men and women gathered near the potted plants. They leaned toward the center in tight concentration, then burst backward as a single organism, their voices lifted in a chorus of well-controlled laughter.
Lillian patted Abigail’s arm. “Time to shine.”
Abigail seemed to shrink into herself. “I do not know what they’re talking about.” Her voice had shrunk, too, into a mere whisper.
Lillian pursed her lips. “Have you ever found yourself at a loss in any conversation?”
Abigail nodded. “Often when the conversation turns to clothing or gossip.”
Lillian turned to Lady Georgiana. “Does Lord Waterford’s set often speak of clothes and gossip?”
Lady Georgiana’s bark of laughter sounded harsh and loud in the candlelit, pastel-soft ballroom, and several heads nearby turned their way.
Lillian liked her immensely. Rather reminded her of her mother.
“Once you see Lord Waterford close up,” Lady Georgiana said, “you will know the answer to that question yourself. He is not known for his sartorial smartness.”
“Why do you not rub elbows with him?” Abigail asked.
“I don’t rub elbows with many.”
Lord Adam snorted. “Wish you wouldn’t rub elbows with me, Georgie. Bad for my roguish reputation to have a blue stocking hanging on. If you were enamored of me, it would be one thing, but you simply wish to torment me. Makes a fellow look weak.”
“Someone must torment you,” Lady Georgiana said. “I take that public service upon myself.” She turned her attention back to Abigail. “I can introduce you. I’ll stand by your side all evening if you like. I do not make a habit of speaking with Lord Waterford, but we respect one another enough.” She stepped into the crowd and wove her way toward Waterford and his group.
Abigail and Lillian followed, and Lillian chuckled to notice that Lord Adam followed as well.
She sent him a silent question over her shoulder.
He shrugged and almost bumped into a gentleman wearing a canary yellow waistcoat. “Pardon me! Curious, aren’t I?”
Just what did he mean by that? Was he curious about what would happen with Lord Waterford? Or did he mean that people in general found him to be a curious sort of fellow?
She found him curious, to be sure. She spoke over her shoulder. “Devon says you met one another at school?”
“We did, and we bonded over our similar situations in life.” He bounced off the line of dancers. “Pardon!”
Lillian dodged a whirling woman’s feathered headdress. “Oh?”
“Mors tua, vita mea. Ah!” He stopped right before slamming into a Grecian column. He looked up and down its height. “Not even supporting anything. Not structural at all. Purely decorative.”
Her skin prickled. “A second son, I see. Are you as disillusioned with your lot in life as my husband is?”
Lord Adam laughed. “No one is as disillusioned as Lord Devon is. I think it’s because his father died so early. He saw everything in action at such a tender age. The Duke is dead, long live the Duke. Maybe if he had loved his father less, he wouldn’t have cared so much, but—”
“That is not the case,” Lillian finished for him.
“Nowme,” Lord Adam said, accidentally elbowing a woman who cut him down with steely eyes over a lace fan, “I can’t stand mydearpapa. Nor my brother. They are both right asses.”
Lillian chuckled. Maybe Devon could be convinced to go into a partnership with someone like Lord Adam. Devon did not have all the money Freddy was asking, but he hadsome, and if he partnered with a man who could supply the remaining amount… surely that was a perfectly acceptable business proposition. It was certainly acceptable for businessmen all over the world to take partners.
She would talk about it with him.
He’d likely say no.
“Look,” Lord Adam said, nodding his head toward Waterford. “I’m squished nice and tight. Won’t be budging for a bit.” And indeed, he was. He’d somehow ended up caught between a column and a sleeping dowager. If he moved one way, the plant atop the column would fall, possibly on the dowager, but if he moved another way, he might wake the dowager, whose movements could topple the plant.
He smiled cheerily. “I’m in quite the pickle, but your girl is about to make her bow. Make haste!”
