The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown (Lady W 1) by Julia Quinn

lady.” The butler set down the flowers, and left.
    Since her debut, St. Valentine’s Day had meant flowers; last year her mother had counted thirty-seven separate bouquets, most of them accompanied by candies and poems, and in one memorable case, a haunch of venison. Francis Henning had evidently thought her too skinny. The scent of roses filled every room of Bishop House today, as well. No one, though, had ever sent her daffodils.
    Her hands abruptly clammy, Anne rubbed them on her skirt before she lifted the folded missive from the bright yellow blooms. She opened the heavy paper, and a smaller, weightier card fell to the floor.
    On the back, in a dark, even hand it said, “As I remember it.” When she picked the thing up, on the front was a six-inch-square colored sketch of a green pasture bordered by oak trees and boulders, and carpeted from one end to the other with yellow flowers. In the corner the initials “MRT” held her gaze for as long as the lovely rendering. “An artist as well,” she said, running a finger carefully across the surface.
    She took a seat and placed the sketch on the table. Then she turned her attention to the letter. All the other notes and cards she had or would receive today featured hearts and cherubs and declarations of heartfelt admiration.
    This one, of course, was different. “‘Anne,’” she read to herself, “‘Nineteen daffodils for the nineteen years we’ve been promised to one another. I would wish one day to show you where they grow wild.’”
    “A scholar, an artist, and a romantic,” she whispered, her fingers shaking. “I would never have guessed.”
    With a hard blink, she went on. “‘I am thinking of you, as I hope you are thinking of me, with desire and anticipation. I shall see you tonight. Maximilian.’”
    Tonight. The Shelbourne St. Valentine’s Day ball. If she had any sense of courage or conviction, Anne decided, she would decline to attend. Then he would be gone, and she would probably never see him again.
    With a sigh she stood to go examine her wardrobe. She already knew she would wear yellow.
    Maximilian stood beside Lady Shelbourne’s dessert table, doing his damnedest not to pace. She’d been invited, he knew, because he’d asked her father. She would come tonight, because he needed her to.
    “Damnation,” he muttered.
    Others seemed to be waiting for her there as well, which only served to further blacken his mood. Lord Howard, of course, circled the room like a vulture, sampling the various available feminine sweets while he waited for the main dish. Sir Royce Pemberley was also there, though his attention seemed to be on a unique female in an equally unique pink gown that appeared in perfect harmony with the swathes of pink, red, and white silk that hung from the ballroom ceiling.
    Well, turnabout was fair play. With another glance at his competition, he strolled toward Margaret, Lady Shelbourne and the pink chit chatting with her.
    “Might I have the pleasure of an introduction?” he asked, stopping before the ladies.
    “Of course, my lord,” Lady Shelbourne answered, swift dismay touching her face and then vanishing again. “Liza, Lord Halfurst. My lord—”
    The pink chit grinned and stuck out her hand. “Miss Elizabeth Pritchard. Liza. Pleased to meet you.”
    He shook her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.” Her light brown hair seemed to be coming out from its elaborate coif, the ends sticking out at odd angles, but she had an intelligence in her eyes that Maximilian couldn’t help but notice. And for once a matron seemed reluctant to see him near a single female, which in itself made Miss Liza Pritchard the most interesting part of his evening thus far.
    “Might I have this waltz, Miss Liza?” he drawled. “If it’s not already spoken for, of course.”
    Unless he was mistaken, she sent a glance in Pemberley’s direction. Good . “I’m afraid I’m all yours, my lord.”
    She was taller by several inches than Anne,