Tristan smirked. “You should see her in action.”
But Phoebe wasn’t smiling, a concerned look settled across her brow. “Do you think she’s all right?”
Once again, Tristan placed a hand on his wife’s back until she dropped back down to her heels. “She looked fine to me, my love. But I’ll go after her, if you want.”
Phoebe slid from Tristan’s grasp. “I think I’ll do so myself. If something is wrong, she’ll be more inclined to confide in me than in you.” Then she started for the exit, stumbling slightly only once, leaving Tristan and Greg to themselves.
Greg looked out once more across the sea of people filling the Astwicks’ ballroom and frowned. “Do have a talk with your wife, Tris. I don’t want to be dragged from event to event like this for the next few months. How you can endure such torture is beyond me.”
“Phoebe enjoys it, and I love making her happy.”
“Well, I don’t enjoy it,” Greg grumbled, not that anyone cared about making him happy.
Tristan shrugged as though silently confirming that information meant very little to him. “You promised one season, Greg. She’s bound and determined not to waste any time where you’re concerned.”
At that, Greg scoffed. Loudly. “To what end? In finding me a bride?” He shook his head. “I’m resigned to the fact that Russell will inherit someday. There’s no need for me to marry and fill my nursery.” And there wasn’t. Russell and his heirs would take Rufford Hall at some point, and that was that. Though Tristan would make a better steward, there was nothing to be done about birth order.
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Tristan said softly, his concerned green eyes level on Greg.
“I came to London for Cordie, not to find a wife. So do call off yours, my dear little brother.”
A bemused smile lit Tristan’s lips. “Humor her. It makes her happy.”
God forbid Phoebe Avery be unhappy. Greg scowled in response. If he wasn’t so fond of his sister-in-law, he’d tell her to go hang. Tristan too, for that matter.
A hiccup sounded from the threshold, and Greg looked toward the sound. A very pretty girl with dark-as-night ringlets framing her face stared up at the man beside her, a look of mortification across her countenance. Greg couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Hmm,” Tristan muttered. “Haven’t seen him a million years.”
Greg had never seen the fellow, not that he knew of anyway. “The dolt is foxed.” Because he very clearly was, with glassy eyes and a flushed face, and he appeared even more uneasy on his feet than Phoebe generally was. Perhaps the Astwicks’ would be more enjoyable if Greg were foxed. It was something to consider for next time.
“That does not surprise me,” his brother replied. “Drank all the way through Eton as though brandy was water.”
“Who is he?”
“Gillingham.” Tristan scratched his chin. “Keeps worse company than Russell. Can’t imagine why he would show up here. Hardly his usual haunt.”
Well, that was simple to understand. He was obviously there for the raven-haired beauty on his arm. Greg glanced back toward the pair. She was stunning. Her dark hair, her silvery eyes, and he couldn’t help but wonder who she was….which was completely foolish. What the devil was wrong with Greg? As he shook that thought from his mind, Gillingham teetered just so as though he was about to lose a bout with gravity.
Oh, good God.
Just as the fellow started to tumble forward, Greg pushed past Tristan and caught the drunken lord about the waist before he fell flat on his face.
“Elliott!” The beautiful girl gasped. Then she turned her pretty grey eyes on Greg and smiled slightly, and he felt it somewhere in his soul. “Thank you, sir. I—”
“Not at all.” Greg shook his head. Up close she was even more beautiful. How the devil was that possible?
Gilligham made some sort of sound and Greg turned his attention back to the soused fellow. But he seemed to have his footing now, which was a good sign.
“You all right?” Greg asked as he took a step backward, making certain the man could stand on his own.
But the fellow wasn’t all right. His face suddenly took on a greenish pallor right before he cast up his accounts all over Greg’s Hessians.
* * *
Goodness! Bella wished she could disappear, evaporate into the ether or have the ground swallow her whole. It didn’t matter, she’d take either option. How could Elliott have done such a thing? How could he have retched across some stranger’s boots in the middle of Lady Astwick’s ballroom? She had fourteen days to find a husband, but after tonight she wouldn’t be able to show her face in Town.
“Oh, sir!” Her hand fluttered to her lips. “I am so terribly sorry.” She didn’t know what else she could possibly say.