Ronan blushed, as he had hit it right on the nose, but she kept her consternation hidden. “Yes, too funny.”
“We’re not getting married off, are we, Archie?” he said, smiling at the equally handsome lad on his right, who had been introduced to Ronan earlier as his beau, the Honorable Archibald Fairfax.
Ronan admired them with an almost jealous longing. They were both so beautiful, it just made sense that they were in love with each other. They were like a pair of twins—two tall, thin, devastatingly handsome twins. The majority of the laws in the empire concerned the governance of magic, and, as in America, there were very few rules concerning personal liberty. Sir Oscar Wilde was a favorite at court, and lived openly with his partner.
“Sorry we’re all there is,” Perry said. “I assume you were hoping to meet some lords or baronets, but they’re all at the hunting party in Chatham before the big ball-o. The prince went down there, so then everyone else wanted to go. Our hostess is a bit miffed at the turnout.”
Ah. So that was why she’d been invited to this dinner. She recalled her last-minute invitation, and Lady Constance begging off because she had to attend “this chore of a hunting party.” But in truth, it appeared Ronan had been fobbed off onto the lesser event, and tonight’s invitation was not so much a social triumph as a social failure. Then there was the dinner Lady Constance had thrown in honor of the prince, to which she had failed to invite Ronan. She wondered how close this friend of the family really was. Ronan understood the hierarchy of parties; her mother had kept lists of guests divided into desirability, back when they’d had the wherewithal to entertain. Still, it pricked a bit to realize one had been dumped into the C-list.
Archie looked up from his glass. “Well, here’s one who didn’t go out with the dogs. Hullo, Marcus, come and meet this lovely lady from the Americas!”
Marcus Deveraux, Viscount Lisle, was the eldest son of her host, and the guest of honor. While he was nowhere near as pretty as Perry or Archie, he was titled, male, and apparently available. “Hate hunting, can’t stand it,” he said, wiping his sticky fingers on his jacket before taking her hand.
“Or he wasn’t invited,” Archie murmured into his champagne glass.
“Can’t ride a horse, that one,” Perry whispered in her ear. “Keeps falling off. Can’t shoot either, unless he means to aim at his foot.”
Ronan tried not to laugh. “Nice to meet you, Marcus,” she said with what she thought was a flirtatious smile.
He nodded brusquely and stalked off. Ronan tried not to feel too insulted.
“Ignore him, he’s got awful manners,” Archie said. “It’s why no one’s accepted him yet, even though he’s gone and proposed to half the girls in London already.”
It was a shame the boys had to go off after dinner; she had quite enjoyed their company. Ronan followed the ladies into the drawing room and sat down on one of the flowered couches. A girl around her age took a seat next to her. She was wearing an obviously expensive but somewhat ugly dress, hampered by an abundance of lace and embroidery. Ronan had chosen Whitney’s dove-gray silk for the evening, and she wished she had not wasted it on so trivial a party. The real action, it seemed, was at the hunting party down in the country. There was nothing worse than feeling as if life was being lived better somewhere else. Ronan attempted to focus on the positives instead of the letdowns of the evening, but her first foray into the London Season felt a lot more like tinse
l than gold.
“Perry’s a laugh, isn’t he?” asked the girl next to her, whose name she now remembered was Lady Fernanda Something-or-Other.
She nodded eagerly. “He and Archie are hilarious.”
“Life of every party. Thank God they have no patience for hunting, or this shindig would be a total bust.”
“Oh, it’s a very nice party.”
“You don’t have to lie, it’s my mother’s,” Fernanda said. “I told her no one would come if the prince went down to Chatham, but she wouldn’t listen. Said she had to do something, as Marcus is to make a match this season or she’s going to take away his stipend. She’s tired of worrying that the estate will go to my third cousin and we’ll be turned out on the streets.”
“Is there any danger of it?” Ronan asked. She was fuzzy on the rules of titles and inheritance, but had a vague understanding that only the eldest son could inherit everything. The rules were a bit more lax in the Americas, since there were no titles to fight over.
“Always,” Fernanda said. “Speaking of weddings, congratulate me—I just found out I’m to be a bridesmaid for the princess.”
Ronan was impressed. “You are friends with Marie-Victoria?”
“Never even met the girl! But Daddy’s a friend of the Merlin’s, so I’m on the list. There are twelve spots—I hear not all of them are taken yet. Perhaps you’ll get a nod,” she said sagely.
“Me?”
“The Merlin wants all the empire represented. He’ll need an American on the carpet, holding up the gown. It’ll look good. Diversified,” she said. “Maybe calm down those rebels overseas. Bring the Americans closer to the fold.”
Ronan nodded; that seemed like a sound proposition. She imagined herself walking on the carpet, holding up a corner of the princess’s long train, a demure smile on her lips.
“Where are you staying?” Fernanda asked, taking a handful of nuts from a silver bowl on the table and chewing noisily.
“Claridge, in the royal suite.”
Fernanda nodded approvingly and gave Ronan a long look up and down, taking in her jeweled fan and the spray of yellow diamonds in her hair, along with the aforementioned gray silk. “Is that Worth?” she asked, meaning Ronan’s dress. “Mama wouldn’t let me have it when we were in Paris. Said it’s frightfully expensive. But no expense is too much for you Americans, is it?”
Ronan smiled mysteriously and did not deny it.