It was important that they all stay together in this foreign land.
“There.” Amelia pointed to the dance floor, and the duchess reminded her about pointing (it was yet another thing that was Not Done). Their brother was waltzing with a very long-faced woman who seemed to smile as much as Loooord Darcy, which was to say, not at all.
James didn’t look like he was having much fun either.
“Oh dear,” Bridget murmured.
“She looks like a horse,” Amelia murmured.
“Lady Melinda Cowper would make an excellent duchess. Her bloodlines are perfect and her manners are exquisite.”
“And she is described like a horse,” Claire said under her breath.
“She probably never finds herself flat on her back in a ballroom and speaking with gentlemen to whom she has not been introduced,” Bridget remarked.
Amelia burst out laughing.
“Why am I not surprised?” Claire asked, sighing. Bridget scowled in annoyance at her older sister.
“I certainly hope not,” the duchess said crisply. “And I shudder to think of how such horrific things even cross your mind, Lady Bridget.”
“You don’t want to know, Josephine. You really don’t.”
She was given A Look that managed to convey her displeasure with being referred to so informally, that she was above actually saying anything about it, and that she was well aware that Bridget knew better and ought to apologize.
“I’m very sorry.”
It was an amazing skill, that. One that Bridget would one day like to possess. Perhaps if she stayed with Josephine long enough, and actually paid attention to her lessons, she would pick up the skill by osmorisis or osmosis or whatever it was.
“Come, there are more introductions to be made. Everyone is desperate to make your acquaintance.”
And with that they continued their campaign to win over the haute ton. They paused to speak with Lord and Lady Something near the lemonade table. Bridget failed to pay strict attention to the conversation; instead she noticed Darcy. There was a woman on his arm—the sort of tall, sleek, beautiful woman that made a regular woman in her best dress feel the most dowdy provincial spinster.
Theirs was a conversation she strained to overhear and she was infuriated by what she overheard him say.
Lord Darcy knew that there was only one thing to do when one’s equilibrium was disturbed, and that was to stand very still and patiently wait for the world to right itself. He stood alone on the terrace, sipping a fine brandy and enjoying a respite. As a precaution, he arranged his features into something that could be described as brooding, the better to ward off anyone who might even consider the foolish notion of trying to converse with him. It was better that everyone thought him in a dark mood, rather than the truth.
And the truth was that he found himself flummoxed.
It went without saying that he was never unbalanced, remotely emotional, or disorganized. He was never flummoxed, confused, or any state other than perfectly calm and collected. He had spent his entire life cultivating the particular talent of suppressing every uncomfortable, wayward emotion.
His father would be so proud. This he thought with a small trace of bitterness.
So it was shocking that he found himself flummoxed, and it was unthinkable that the cause was an American woman sprawled on the floor of a ballroom.
He didn’t know a world where that happened. Where women sprawled upon floors in ballrooms, then stood up and made jokes about it and proceeded to tease him.
No one teased him.
No one spoke to him the way she had done—informally, as if they were old mates of the same rank. Did she not know that she was supposed to be afraid of him?
Apparently not.
No one ever left him with a tight feeling in his chest either. Like he couldn’t breathe. Like she took his breath away.
But that was preposterous.
Darcy sipped his drink and willed his world to rights. The tension in his chest eased and his breathing resumed. A young woman caught his eye and quickly averted her gaze—ah, that was more like it.
He hadn’t seen Rupert since the bounder abandoned him with Lady Bridget—here he took a sharp intake of breath and refused to consider her further—and he reluctantly returned to the ballroom in search of him.
But then there was Fox, heading his way and grinning for having found him. His sister was with him, strolling along gracefully. Lady Francesca DeVere was beautiful, clever, and irreproachable. The perfect wife for a man of his station. He would probably marry her.
“Have you seen my brother?” Darcy inquired.
“I think I spotted him in the card room with Croft,” Fox said, referring to an old school friend of theirs. Darcy wasn’t surprised; his brother had recently begun racking up gaming debts. “But never mind that. I have made the acquaintance of the new duke,” Fox said, falling in step beside him. Francesca did as well. “He’s all right.”