Oh, dear. Ashley had given her promise; what could she do?
Another friend walked up to their group, and Miss Kenyon and Georgia greeted the newcomer. Ashley stepped closer so she could whisper in Amber’s ear. “What do you think Madame Zavrina would say?”
Amber looked stricken for a moment, but only a moment. She threw her shoulders back and looked as mulish as when she’d refused to acknowledge she’d incorrectly conjugated a French verb. “I don’t care.” Her voice rose with her passion, to a normal conversational level. “I love Sir Peyton and he loves me, and we’re going to be married over the anvil by Tuesday night. My parents will accept him once they see how happy we are together.”
* * *
David had tucked his violincello away in its case and was working his way through the crowd to speak with his sister when he heard the young woman declare her love for Sir Peyton. He paused, his back to the group so they wouldn’t notice him eavesdropping. Seemed Peyton was up to his old tricks. Poor, foolish girl. Stubborn girl, as she resisted Miss Hamlin’s entreaties for a calm head and to take more time to ponder her actions.
Georgia and another friend joined them, and they turned the conversation to their plans to attend the masquerade ball the following night, and the costume each planned to wear.
Grantham walked up to the group then, accompanied by Lady Bristol.
“My dear Miss Hamlin,” Grantham said once the introductions were done and Lady Bristol moved on to other guests. “May I fetch you a glass of punch?”
David’s heart stuttered as Miss Hamlin took a beat too long to answer. “Thank you, that’s very kind. But … I’m not thirsty.”
From the corner of his eye, David saw Grantham recoil in surprise. Fetching punch and receiving the cup was a major part of the Marriage Mart mating rituals. No miss refused a glass, even if she just held it and didn’t drink it.
David found his emotions mixed. Glad the chit was refusing punch from strange men, and also sad that she now felt the need to protect herself this way.
“Please excuse me,” Miss Hamlin said. “My aunt is signaling me.”
Grantham’s jaw worked like a landed fish as he watched her go.
A few minutes later the crowd around the refreshment table thinned, and David ladled a cup of punch for himself. Miss Hamlin stood beside him, an empty cup in hand, patiently waiting for the ladle. Confident she had seen him fill it, he handed her his cup.
Their bare fingers brushed, startling him. He hadn’t put gloves back on after his performance, and hers were poking out from her reticule. Under the bright chandelier, he noted her light brown eyes were the color of sherry, and sparkled like the small diamond ear bobs and necklace she wore. Unlike when she conversed with Grantham, she appeared relaxed. With a little teasing he was sure he could coax a smile from her, were he inclined to strike up a flirtation. Which he reminded himself he had no intention of doing.
“Thank you.” She immediately took a sip, and set down the empty cup she’d been holding.
He filled another cup for himself and stepped back so some swain could fetch two cups.
Miss Hamlin followed him. “May I compliment you on your performance?”
He froze in mid-step.
“Georgia said that was your arrangement. Very clever how it featured the deeper voices so well.”
He started breathing again. “Mansfield wanted something so he could impress Diana on their tenth wedding anniversary. Was a simple matter of shuffling parts. Pitch them down an octave.” He was supposed to keep his distance, not speak to Miss Hamlin, but David found himself oddly reluctant to leave her company.
“Simple for you, perhaps. I cannot imagine trying to—”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Mansfield said. “Diana wants to tuck in the little ones, and Miss Hamlin, your aunt asked to make a night of it as well.”
“Of course.” She put her cup on the table. David couldn’t resist raising her hand to kiss it, and wished her a good night before she accepted Mansfield’s arm and walked away.
* * *
Saturday evening, Amber Barrow-Smith walked arm in arm with Mrs. Driscoll. As the weather had remained fine, even though no moon shone tonight, she had followed through with her plan to walk to the masquerade ball hosted by Lord and Lady Waldon. Their home was only one square over from her own. What could go wrong?
Mrs. Driscoll let out a quiet shriek as a cat darted out from the gate they were passing and dashed across the road. Mrs. Driscoll halted, her hand over her chest.
“Do you need your smelling salts?” Amber inquired, struggling to be patient. This widowed chaperone her parents had hired for the Season was great to play cards or chess with when they were short on social engagements, but jumped at every shadow.
“I … I shall be fine. The cat was not black.” She adjusted the bright blue cape she wore over her Grecian costume. Amber had persuaded her to dress as Hera, goddess of marriage, matching Amber, who’d chosen to be Athena, goddess of wisdom and reason.
They each carried their silk half-mask in a reticule. Sir Peyton knew what Amber was wearing. He was to be dressed as Eros, with wings and a bow and quiver of arrows. They intended to sneak away to the garden for a few moments during the masquerade to finalize plans for Sunday morning.
