“Bella!” Prissa’s hand flew to her heart. “You can’t be serious.”
A laugh escaped Bella, which was a good sign, actually. If she could manage to laugh, there had to be some hope. “Not so she can give me one of her suitors, but she may have some grand idea, something I haven’t come up with.”
“All right.” Elliott scratched his jaw. “You work that angle, and I’ll see if I can’t figure something out with some old schoolmates, someone Grandfather wouldn’t soundly object to.”
“You should head to the Astwick ball,” Prissa suggested.
But Bella shook her head. “I hardly feel in the mood for such a thing tonight.”
Her sister’s lips pursed. “Really, Bella! You have a fortnight to change your future. You can’t afford to let a little thing like your mood cost you precious time.”
“She’s right,” Elliott added. “I could always escort you. There’s no need to deal with Father or His Grace.”
Elliott truly was an ally. Bella would have never expected him to be so. “You’d do that for me?”
He shrugged a bit, and a charming smile – their mother’s smile – lit his lips. “By the time the old cur finally sticks his spoon in the wall, I’m likely to be an old man myself. It might be in my best interest to find a wealthy bride of my own. No man could live off my allowance.”
Prissa sucked in a breath. “Elliott Winslett! You will not be a fortune hunter!”
He chuckled slightly. “I make no promises, love.”
Chapter 2
The London Seasonwas most certainly the eighth circle of hell. Seducers, flatterers, hypocrites. And those were just the fellows Greg was familiar with. Not for the first time that night, he wondered why he was standing in the front corner of Lady Astwick’s ballroom, holding a cup of tepid punch and watching young chits swirl about the dance floor on the arms of such men.
The question was a rhetorical one, however. He knew exactly why he was there. His sister-in-law Phoebe had made it her mission to drag him to the most exclusive events in Town ever since his arrival a fortnight earlier. No matter how much he adored his sister-in-law – and he truly did – he was in no mood to have her thrust any more of her un-wed friends in his direction.
After all, he hadn’t come to Town to socialize. And he certainly hadn’t come to Town to find a wife. He’d come to be of support to his sister. His sister, who was not even in attendance this evening, damn it all. So he shouldn’t have been dragged to this dratted ballroom, not really.
“I could have sworn Lissy was here when we arrived,” Phoebe complained under her breath. Then she raised herself up on her toes as though to get a better view of the ballroom. Searching for yet another one of her friends she wanted to foist upon Greg, most certainly.
He could go one evening without enduring such a thing. Damn it all, he could go a lifetime.
“Carraway dragged her away while you were in the retiring room, my love,” Tristan replied smoothly, placing his hand on his wife’s back until she dropped back down to her heels. “And do watch your balance. I’ll be carrying you out of here with a twisted ankle if you’re not careful.”
Phoebe, who wasn’t known for her surefootedness, turned around, her auburn curls bouncing about her shoulders. Her blue eyes twinkled with mischief as she gazed up at her husband. “Lord Carraway?”
“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.” Tristan shook his head. “The fellow looked to be well beyond angry, Phoeb.”
“Whenever he encounters her, she puts him in a mood,” Phoebe agreed. Then she shrugged nonchalantly and smiled at her husband. “Don’t you remember how you were always so prickly in my presence? Before you realized you loved me, I mean?”
“I hardly think I was prickly.” Tristan narrowed his eyes on his wife. “Besides, I doubt this is the same thing.”
“But it could be,” Phoebe replied dreamily. “I think they might make a splendid match, don’t you?”
If that meant Phoebe wasn’t inspired to toss whoever the chit was in Greg’s path, he was all for it. “Oh, I do,” he added as he handed his glass to a passing footman. Though he had no idea who she was talking about…well other than Lord Carraway, a bloody politician, naturally. And with that thought, Greg was right back to imaging Lady Astwick’s ballroom as the eighth circle of hell.
“You might like her.” Phoebe turned her full attention on Greg. “Lady Felicity is always in the brightest of dispositions.”
So much for the chit making a splendid match for Carraway. Greg heaved a sigh. He didn’t know Lady Felicity, but he knew the name. He knew it quite well. “The lady who’s forever putting Russell in his place?”
Phoebe grinned. “She does rather excel at that.” Then his sister-in-law’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh! And speaking of the devil.” She rose up on her tiptoes again and called toward the entranceway, “There you are!”
Greg, Tristan and several others turned their attention to a pretty blonde girl, who looked at once panicked. She lifted her skirts, turned on her heel and quickly bolted down the corridor, away from the ballroom.
“Lissy!” Phoebe called after the girl, but the chit didn’t so much as slow her gait.
“That skittish mouse is the same girl who makes Russell shake in his Hessians?” Whatever he’d expected of Lady Felicity, she didn’t appear to be the reputed dragon his middle brother had been known to hide from on occasion. Though she certainly had the right idea about escaping the ballroom, Greg had to give her that.