The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 156

“You’ve thoroughly bewitched him,” I say, laughing.

“Simon said to be charming, and so I have charmed my way through every appointment with Lady Markham and her son, but I don’t think I can bear much more of his attention.”

“You’d best prepare, for here he comes now.”

I nod toward the crowd of three hundred people, where Horace Markham pushes his way toward us, raising his hand like a man trying to secure a hansom. He’s tall and slender, aged twenty-three, according to Felicity. His face is boyish and given to frequent blushing. I can tell at a glance from the way he carries himself—slightly stooped forward, a little embarrassed—that he hasn’t the courage or, frankly, the devil it would take to keep pace with Felicity.

“Oh, dear,” I say under my breath.

“Indeed,” Felicity shoots back.

“Miss Worthington,” Horace says, out of breath. A curly lock breaks free and sticks to the sheen on his high forehead. “Here we are again, it would seem.”

“Yes, so it would.” Fee glances up at Horace through downcast eyes. A coy smile plays at her lips. It’s no wonder the poor boy is besotted.

“I believe the polka is next. Would you care to join me for it?” he asks, and it sounds like begging.

“Mr. Markham, that’s very kind, but we’ve already had so many dances that I am afraid of what people will say,” Fee says, playing proper, and it is all I can do not to laugh.

“Let them talk.” Horace straightens his waistcoat as if preparing for a duel to defend his family’s honor.

“Gracious,” I mutter.

Felicity’s sidelong glance says, You’ve no idea. Lady Denby sits at a table eating cake. She looks on with disapproval and it doesn’t escape Felicity’s notice.

“How very brave you are, Mr. Markham,” Fee says, allowing Horace to squire her right past Lady Denby to the dance floor.

“I don’t suppose there is still room on your dance card for one more?”

I turn to see Simon Middleton smiling at me. With his white tie and tails and that wicked twinkle in his eyes, he is ever so handsome.

“I was to dance with a Mr. Whitford.” I demur.

Simon nods. “Ah, old man Whitford. Not only does he walk with the aid of a cane, but his memory is rather faulty. Chances are he’s forgotten you, I’m sorry to say, and if he hasn’t, we could have our dance and be back here again before he’s hobbled to your side.”

I laugh, glad for his delicious wit. “In that case, I accept.”

We glide into the swell of dancers, brushing past Tom, who is intent on charming his dance partner: “Dr. Smith and I cured the poor man of his delusions, though I daresay it was my insight into the case that started it all….”

“Was it really?” she says, drinking his story in, and it is all I can do not to give Tom the ears of a rabbit.

Mrs. Tuttle has returned from the ladies’ dressing room. She holds two glasses of lemonade. She sees me dancing with Simon, a look of pure horror on her face, for it is her duty to see that every gentleman who might court me passes muster. She holds the keys to the gate. But she has been relieved of duty whether she knows it or not. No, Mrs. Tuttle. You want to stay there. I am fine here in Simon’s arms. I need no tending. Please, enjoy your lemonade. Blinking and confused, Mrs. Tuttle turns around and drinks from both glasses of lemonade.

“I say, your chaperone is a bit wobbly. Is she a drinking woman?” Simon asks.

“Only lemonade,” I answer.

Simon gives me a flirtatious smile. “I daresay there is something changed in you.”

“Is there?”

“Mmmm. I cannot say what it is. Miss Doyle and her secrets.” He appraises my form with a sweeping glance that is far too bold and, I must confess, very thrilling. “But you are quite lovely this evening.”

“Is your Miss Fairchild here tonight?”

“She is indeed,” he answers, and I do not need the power of the realms to feel the warmth in his answer.

I’m filled with a sudden regret for having refused him. He is handsome and merry. He thought me beautiful. What if I do not find anyone like him ever again?

What if I could have him again?

“Miss Fairchild is an American. I suppose she’ll want to go home as soon as the season is over,” I say, leaning in just a bit closer to Simon.

“Perhaps so, though she claims to find England agreeable.” Simon’s hand presses a bit more firmly at the base of my spine. “And what are your plans, Miss Doyle? Have you set your sights on anyone special?”