Bething's Folly by Bárbara Metzger

of supper. Luckily Miss Bethingame was unaware of the connotation of the honour, for she was able to converse with the Duchess unaffectedly. She was pleased at the likeness the Duchess saw in her to her mother, and proud when the Duchess noted that the Duke had always thought highly of her father. Whatever else Miss Bethingame might be, she was not shy and did not merely stand gawking at the exquisite beauty of Lady Carlyle, who was equally pleased that her old friend’s daughter had turned out so charmingly. Somehow they had become the centre of a group of laughing young men—the Marquis had excused himself—and peculiarly enough, the Duchess nonchalantly undertook to sort them out and make introductions—the functions of a chaperone. Elizabeth was worrying over this when Millbrooke came for their second dance together.
    “Oh, think nothing of it, Miss Bethingame; didn’t she say she knew your mother? I am sure she won’t mind all your beaux, especially with the Duke not present.” Milbrooke laughed. “He said Carleton and I were all the escort any woman could want ... Incidentally, I’ll be saying goodbye, leaving for London in the morning, you know.”
    “No, I hadn’t known. I’m sorry to hear it; you’ve been so kind.” She meant it, and Ferddie was touched. “I’ll be seeing you shortly, at any rate.”
    “What a peculiar notion, Lord Milbrooke. How could you be seeing me? I do not go to London.”
    “No?” He looked a little confused. “Well, um, Carleton is staying on, so I shall likely be visiting again soon. I’m down often, you know.”
    Elizabeth gave an immediate invitation to call on his return, meanwhile wondering how much longer the Marquis was planning to remain in the country, away from all the entertainments of London. She also wondered if now, having had two dances with Milbrooke, she could expect Carleton to ask her again also. He was not among the crowd around the Duchess, however, when Ferddie led her there without any hesitation after the dance. She was overwhelmed at first at the compliments waiting for her and the number of young men wishing to dance. The Duchess laughed at her confusion over the clamour, then kindly intervened.
    “Come, my dear, you must get used to being the belle of the ball! Here, I’ll decide. Mr. Rivington, you shall have the honour of this dance with Miss Bethingame, only because your father was a beau of mine.”
    After two or three partners, pleasant, friendly young men from the neighbourhood, were selected for her in such a fashion, Elizabeth began to feel a little uncomfortable. The other girls were chatting among themselves between dances, flirting with a few young men and accepting their own partners. The only explanation she could think of was the suspicion that she was to be kept busy—away from the Duchess’s own son. But no, he was standing with a group at the other side of the room and had not even approached her, or the Duchess. Besides, her Grace was truly being kind; perhaps it was just her sense of propriety, knowing Elizabeth’s aunt to be such a slipshod chaperone. Still, Miss Bethingame was uneasy, especially when the Duchess’s manner underwent a change at the next introduction.
    “Miss Bethingame, here is Sir Edwin Harkness, who swears his night would be ruined without a dance with you.” Her voice was an icicle dripping disapproval. Elizabeth would have asked for an explanation, fearing she had committed some social blunder, but Sir Edwin made such a laughable picture in his exquisitely flourished bow that all her attention was drawn to him. Here was a true Tulip of fashion, and proud of it, right from his neckcloth, tied so high he could barely nod, to the rhinestone buckles on his shoes. In between was a checked velvet waistcoat crossed with enough fobs to keep an entire village from losing its timepieces! There were rings on every finger and lace dripping everywhere Elizabeth looked. She was amazed no, dumbfounded. She could