merry, Miss Hargrove, for soon you will be a married woman.”
“Pardon?” Monica said, confused as to what, exactly, Lady Chatham had meant, but she’d already swanned away.
Mr. Rivers led her onto the ballroom floor. The dance began with a pair of turns, one way, then the other. On the second turn, Monica happened to catch sight of George Easton, who, surprisingly, was watching her. Monica twirled the other way.
George Easton, here? She knew Easton instantly, of course—everyone knew him. One did not claim to be the nephew of the king and escape attention. Recently, she’d heard he had jeopardized his fortune.
How had he gained entrance? Lady Feathers, the lead patroness of the assembly, was quite strict in her rules of entry, and Monica could not imagine that she would ever allow the bastard son of the Duke of Gloucester to enter, particularly as the current duke was disdainful of the man he called a pretender.
The dance came to an end, and Mr. Rivers escorted Monica from the dance floor. She declined his offer for a drink and watched him move away, searching for his next dance partner.
Monica scanned the crowd—there was Honor again, dancing now, her step light and free as she skipped around Charles Braxton in her figures, while Braxton admired her like an adoring child. Grace was on the dance floor as well, her smile brilliant beneath the candelabras, her dancing more elegant than her sister’s.
Monica turned away, unwilling to watch. She was seeking a familiar face to talk to when she felt a tingling in her spine—she could feel someone looking at her, and when she turned about, she was surprised once again to see George Easton staring directly at her.
Not only was his gaze locked on her, he was walking purposefully in her direction. Monica thought perhaps she was mistaken, but Easton headed right to her. He smiled charmingly and bowed low. “Miss Hargrove, may I be so bold as to present myself to you? I hope you will forgive me, but I saw you with Rivers and I’ve not been able to turn away. I am George Easton, at your service.”
Was he not aware that a gentleman did not approach a lady without invitation? Monica glanced slyly around the room to see if anyone had noticed this breach of etiquette. “How do you do, Mr. Easton,” she said, smiling a little. She found his approach completely suspect, and yet she couldn’t help but be a bit flattered by it.
He gave her a dazzling smile. “I confess I am quite captivated.”
Gentlemen had, at times, been captivated with her, but they hadn’t admitted it quite like that. “Are you, indeed?” she asked, smiling coyly. “How unusual it is to have a gentleman approach without invitation, and make such a proclamation.”
“I am an unusual man,” he said cheerfully. “But I see I’ve been too forthright. I’ve been accused of being so in the past, but when it comes to beautiful women, it is a habit I cannot seem to break. May I offer you a glass of punch, Miss Hargrove?”
What was happening here? Why was he talking to her like this? She didn’t believe for a moment that a man of his charm and fine looks and reputation would be the least bit captivated by her. She was suddenly wildly curious as to what he was about. “You may.”
He led her across the room to the sideboard, nodded at the footman attending and accepted a glass of punch to hand to Monica.
“Thank you.”
Easton smiled again, his eyes softening around the corners. He really was quite handsome, what with his square jaw, blue eyes and brown hair streaked with gold. Monica wished Augustine had more hair, really; his was beginning to thin on top.
Easton touched her elbow lightly and led her away from the sideboard. “You will undoubtedly think me bold again if I were to proclaim there is not a lovelier woman in attendance tonight, but I must say it is so.”
He was perhaps a bit blind. “But there are so many women here tonight,” Monica said.
“None that can compare to
“Pardon?” Monica said, confused as to what, exactly, Lady Chatham had meant, but she’d already swanned away.
Mr. Rivers led her onto the ballroom floor. The dance began with a pair of turns, one way, then the other. On the second turn, Monica happened to catch sight of George Easton, who, surprisingly, was watching her. Monica twirled the other way.
George Easton, here? She knew Easton instantly, of course—everyone knew him. One did not claim to be the nephew of the king and escape attention. Recently, she’d heard he had jeopardized his fortune.
How had he gained entrance? Lady Feathers, the lead patroness of the assembly, was quite strict in her rules of entry, and Monica could not imagine that she would ever allow the bastard son of the Duke of Gloucester to enter, particularly as the current duke was disdainful of the man he called a pretender.
The dance came to an end, and Mr. Rivers escorted Monica from the dance floor. She declined his offer for a drink and watched him move away, searching for his next dance partner.
Monica scanned the crowd—there was Honor again, dancing now, her step light and free as she skipped around Charles Braxton in her figures, while Braxton admired her like an adoring child. Grace was on the dance floor as well, her smile brilliant beneath the candelabras, her dancing more elegant than her sister’s.
Monica turned away, unwilling to watch. She was seeking a familiar face to talk to when she felt a tingling in her spine—she could feel someone looking at her, and when she turned about, she was surprised once again to see George Easton staring directly at her.
Not only was his gaze locked on her, he was walking purposefully in her direction. Monica thought perhaps she was mistaken, but Easton headed right to her. He smiled charmingly and bowed low. “Miss Hargrove, may I be so bold as to present myself to you? I hope you will forgive me, but I saw you with Rivers and I’ve not been able to turn away. I am George Easton, at your service.”
Was he not aware that a gentleman did not approach a lady without invitation? Monica glanced slyly around the room to see if anyone had noticed this breach of etiquette. “How do you do, Mr. Easton,” she said, smiling a little. She found his approach completely suspect, and yet she couldn’t help but be a bit flattered by it.
He gave her a dazzling smile. “I confess I am quite captivated.”
Gentlemen had, at times, been captivated with her, but they hadn’t admitted it quite like that. “Are you, indeed?” she asked, smiling coyly. “How unusual it is to have a gentleman approach without invitation, and make such a proclamation.”
“I am an unusual man,” he said cheerfully. “But I see I’ve been too forthright. I’ve been accused of being so in the past, but when it comes to beautiful women, it is a habit I cannot seem to break. May I offer you a glass of punch, Miss Hargrove?”
What was happening here? Why was he talking to her like this? She didn’t believe for a moment that a man of his charm and fine looks and reputation would be the least bit captivated by her. She was suddenly wildly curious as to what he was about. “You may.”
He led her across the room to the sideboard, nodded at the footman attending and accepted a glass of punch to hand to Monica.
“Thank you.”
Easton smiled again, his eyes softening around the corners. He really was quite handsome, what with his square jaw, blue eyes and brown hair streaked with gold. Monica wished Augustine had more hair, really; his was beginning to thin on top.
Easton touched her elbow lightly and led her away from the sideboard. “You will undoubtedly think me bold again if I were to proclaim there is not a lovelier woman in attendance tonight, but I must say it is so.”
He was perhaps a bit blind. “But there are so many women here tonight,” Monica said.
“None that can compare to
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