“Stymied.” He didn’t meet Simon’s eyes.
Charlie clapped him on the shoulder. “Never mind—it’ll all work out. You’ll see.”
James hoped so, because, regardless of all else, he had the futures of a small army to ensure.
Chapter Three
Lady Marchmain’s rout was one of the traditional highlights of the Season. That said, it wasn’t an event patronized by the very young ladies only just out, but rather by those no longer caught up in the first flush of the Marriage Mart. Among the sea of well-coiffed heads gleaming beneath the crystal chandeliers, in between the black-clad shoulders of fashionable gentlemen in evening attire and the stunning gowns in more intense hues worn by dashing matrons and more mature ladies, could be glimpsed the definite-yet-still-pastel-colored creations favored by young ladies with several Seasons under their belts but as yet no offer for their hands.
“Just as I thought.” Clad in blue silk in a shade deeper than her eyes, Henrietta tipped her head toward the melee, then leaned closer to James, standing alongside her, the better to be heard over the din created by hundreds of wagging tongues. “We’re sure to find several good candidates in this crowd.”
James eyed the shifting throng with a jaundiced eye. “The trick will be winkling them out from the herd.”
“Never fear.” Eyes sparkling, Henrietta grinned, transparently in her element. “Trust me—it won’t be that difficult.”
They were standing by one side of the massive ballroom, with a wall of long windows at their backs. Beyond the windows lay a wide lawn rolling down to a stream; the darkening shadows of extensive gardens stretched into the distance beyond.
Marchmain House stood outside London proper, at a bend along the river near Chiswick. James had arrived reasonably early, wanting to be there when Henrietta walked in. He’d assumed she would be attending with her mother and sister, but instead she’d appeared at the top of the steps leading down into the ballroom alone; a slender figure in the blue silk gown that echoed the soft shade of her eyes, a gold-spangled shawl draped over her elbows, she’d instantly commanded his attention. He’d watched her greet Lady Marchmain, a motherly lady of the grande dame variety, with open affection, then move on to peck Lord Marchmain’s cheek before, with a laugh, descending to the ballroom.
James had been waiting for her by the bottom step.
The smile she’d bestowed on him when her gaze had alighted on him—the quick glance she’d sent skating over him and the approval that had flared in her eyes—had left him feeling a tad off-balance. Knocked askew. How he was supposed to command his unruly senses to focus on any other young lady was beyond his comprehension.
But . . . “There’s Miss Alcock.” Henrietta shifted closer still to point out a young lady in an apple green gown. “We should definitely consider her. And . . .” She wove away, then back, peering past the shoulders, simultaneously playing havoc with James’s distracted senses; her perfume, a subtle blend of citrus and rose, wreathed his brain and trapped his wits. “Yes, that’s Miss Ellingham over there—I had hoped she would be here.”
Henrietta turned to him. “Come along. I’ll introduce you, and then, unless I miss my guess, and I rarely do, the musicians will start playing and the dancing will begin, and there’s no better opportunity to assess a young lady than while you’re waltzing with her.”
Inwardly grim, he nodded. Wondering just what she meant by “assess”—what criteria did she think he might explore?—he manfully accompanied her into the crush.
Within ten feet, he’d been forcibly reminded just why he normally avoided such events. It was heavy going, tacking this way and that through the shifting mass, trying to keep alongside Henrietta while simultaneously not taking her arm. Time and again, when they paused to exchange greetings, occasionally stopping to chat, he was forced to clasp his hands behind his back simply to stop himself from reaching for her arm and drawing her protectively nearer.
Many young ladies would have shrunk toward him, would have relied on him to steer them through the throng, but Henrietta was entirely at home amid the surging bodies and forged ahead unperturbed; in this arena, she needed no protection. If anything, the shoe was on the other foot, and he needed hers.
That was a reality played out again and again, one that subtly grated on some heretofore unregistered instinct.
Yet she was as good as her word, and he found himself standing beside her in the circle in which pretty Miss Alcock stood animatedly chatting. When the first strains of the violins floated out above the heads, it was a simple matter to request Miss Alcock’s hand. With a sweet smile, Miss Alcock accepted, and he led her to the dance floor—all too conscious of Henrietta’s encouraging smile following him into and through the resulting waltz.
From there, the evening progressed with Henrietta steering him into circle after circle, guiding him to one potential candidate after another. He danced with Miss Chisolm, whom he’d met in the park that morning, and also with Miss Downtree and Miss Ellingham.
By the time he drew Miss Swinson into his arms and started them revolving, his conversational gambits had grown somewhat tired. At least to him. Luckily, Miss Swinson found his deliberately charming smile and his pleasant inquiry as to how she was enjoying the evening entirely appropriate.
“It’s the devil of a crush, isn’t it? Oh!” Her eyes rounded, then filled with rueful laughter. “Pray excuse me! I know I shouldn’t say that—devil, I mean—but with so many brothers, it just slips out.”
James grinned quite sincerely. “Pray don’t censor your words on my account.”
She tipped her head, regarding him, then asked, the laughter still in her eyes, “In that case—are you enjoying the evening? It seems an unlikely event to attract one such as you.”
“You are clearly perspicacious. I have to admit that I’m finding the crush rather draining.”
“Yes, well, it is one of the main events of the Season, at least for all those not immersed in the Marriage Mart.” As they whirled, a ripple of reaction among the other dancers distracted Miss Swinson; she looked across, then returned her gaze to James’s face. “A case in point—that was Sir Peter Affry and the lovely Dulcimea Thorne waltzing by. Word is that he’s dangling after Cassandra Carmichael, but Dulcimea isn’t one t
o let any other steal a march on her.”
The revolutions of the waltz brought the couple in question into James’s sight. He recognized the gentleman Henrietta had pointed out that morning, and took due note of the predatory way Miss Thorne had all but draped herself over Sir Peter, the niceties of proper waltzing etiquette notwithstanding. “Miss Thorne certainly appears to be making a strong argument for Sir Peter’s attention.”
As they whirled again, Miss Swinson craned her neck to see. “It’ll be all over the at-homes tomorrow morning, no doubt.”
James could almost find it in him to be grateful to Sir Peter and his pursuit of the beauteous Miss Carmichael; with all eyes, however discreetly, watching the developments between Sir Peter and Miss Thorne, no one was inclined to pay all that much attention to the strange circumstance of one of the ton’s acknowledged wolves running on The Matchbreaker’s leash.