“Of course he is staring,” she responded, still in that sweet, soft voice. “Livia is dressed so outlandishly. If her hope was to attract the attention of eligible men, I’m afraid it’s impossible. Without money, without important connections, she is, unfortunately, destined for spinsterhood. It’s all so dreadfully sad, isn’t it? And you needn’t worry about Tom, I assure you! Mama has other plans for him. Do you see the young lady standing next to the replica of Cleopatra’s barge? That is Miss Gillingham. Her father is a baronet and she is to receive a dowry of twenty thousand pounds.”
“Does Tom know he is to marry her?” he asked sardonically.
“Indeed I do not know if Mama happened to mention it. I am sure he will do what is expected of him.”
“Duty above all, of course.” That word again. Speaking of which, he wondered how many times he’d have to perform the marital duty with Miss Orr. It wasn’t exactly a stimulating thought, but . . . offspring. Offspring. Involuntarily he flicked his gaze to the girl who sat alone, a living goddess, warmth and vitality fairly crackling from her.
“Of course.” Miss Orr smiled as if pleased with the perfect understanding they had achieved, then went on to comment about the number of couples in the dance, how delightfully the weather had cooperated, the cost of the orchestra’s hire.
Gabriel replied courteously, in exactly the right places. He must have been a little distracted, though, because when the dance ended and he was about to sweep her off, by the time he’d opened his mouth to tender the invitation, another man had borne her away on his arm. So he went on to his next partner.
He danced with a succession of the neighborhood’s young ladies as etiquette dictated he ought, as an honored guest of the Orrs, but somehow they all combined to make an unmemorable blur. Only a few images stood out in his mind. His grandmother, watching him with hawklike attention . . . Miss Orr, now partnered by other men, moving gracefully through the steps and, no doubt, discussing how mild it was tonight and how expensive the music . . . Tom Orr, casting furtive glances around him, slowly edging his way closer to the girl in white and gold, and from across the room his mother Lady Glanville’s poorly concealed look of alarm.
Livia sat very straight in her chair. Not only she had failed to kick over a potted palm, this ball was otherwise turning out to be a very bad experience. Not a single person had asked her to dance. She would have had to say no, of course, not knowing how, but still. It would have been nice to be asked. Who had made up the rule that men had to do the asking, anyway? It was a thoroughly stupid rule. Also stupid was the fact that she’d had to watch Cecily Orr dancing (perfectly, she had to admit) with him. Mr. Penhallow. And he was more good-looking than anyone had a right to be.
Livia wished she’d had those two coins right now, so that she could toss them right in his arrogant face.
A very small, slight sigh escaped her.
Lady Glanville was right.
Life certainly wasn’t fair.
She gazed around the crowded ballroom as if she didn’t have a care in the world, and thought:
This evening cannot last forever. It will end. It must end. And then life will go back to what it was before.
“Miss Stuart,” a voice said hoarsely.
Startled, Livia looked up to see Tom Orr standing before her. He was a big, bulky young man, with lank straw-colored hair and protuberant blue eyes. His hands were massive.
“Mr. Orr,” she answered blankly.
He shifted on large feet and as he tugged at his neckcloth, Livia saw that he was copiously perspiring. “May I have the honor of the next dance?” he asked, then looked uneasily over his shoulder.
Behind him, Livia saw Lady Glanville, horrified disapproval radiating from every pore, struggling to make her way toward them. Her progress was hindered not only by the sheer press of bodies but by how often her guests drew her into conversation. Livia felt the corners of her lips quirk up in a smile as that same spirit of defiant mischief took hold of her.
She looked up at Tom again. “I don’t dance, Mr. Orr—”
“Good,” he interrupted in relief. “Can’t stand all that jiggling about.”
“But,” she went on, confidingly, “I’m in danger of overheating, for the room is so warm.”
“Ain’t it though? I’m in the same boat. Hot as blazes in here.”
There was a brief silence, and Livia could see that more of a hint was needed. “Do you suppose there’s somewhere cooler we might go? Into the garden, perhaps?”
He nodded vigorously. “Aye, it would be cooler out there. I wonder how we could manage it?”