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breeding forced him to ask that young lady to dance.
    Miss Chasmont, Carleton learned from his questions, was the niece of a neighbouring baronet. Yes, she liked to dance; no, it was not too warm. Carleton ransacked his mind to find a topic for conversation since Miss Chasmont was obviously not willing—or able—to make the effort. Gods, he thought, what are young women interested in? The ones he knew concerned themselves with love, money and gossip, none suitable here. Before the silence could grow more embarrassing for them both, he complimented Miss Chasmont for not being one of those females who ruined the pleasure of the dance with incessant chatter. Her “Thank you, my Lord” took care of the rest of the dance. Carleton had, of course, to find Miss Chasmont’s aunt and return the young lady to her side, where, just as surely, his own mother was waiting.
    The young lady offered to him this time had a sweet smile, but she could not dance. Their attempts to find mutual acquaintances in London were constantly interrupted with her apologies, his claims of fault, her demurrals.
    “Well, shall we stand aside for a moment or two?” he finally asked in desperation and was rewarded with another of the sweet smiles. Conversation went somewhat better—her elder brother having been some four years behind Carleton at Eton—until the music stopped. The Marquis looked hopefully for one of his friends, but none was close by so he had to go through the routine again and again, greeting his mother after each dance with noticeably less enthusiasm. There was the young woman whose nose was her best feature, thankfully separating her eyes; the one who stammered and blushed the whole dance; the one so bedecked with flowers that he could hardly get through some of the dance steps without mangling a posy.
    His last partner before dinner was the prettiest of the lot and the most talkative, if an inquisition was a form of communication. Hoping to please him by showing interest in his home, he charitably assumed, and not for baser reasons, she quizzed him on the age of the Hall, who designed which wing, when the title had been conferred.
    Carleton had some vague knowledge of all this but not enough to satisfy Miss Smythe-Warner’s curiosity. Luckily it was a country dance, so changing partners granted him a reprieve.
    When the figures of the dance brought his cousin Margaret to his side—not entirely by chance, as he had purposely joined her set—he was desperate.
    “Maggie, sweet cousin, if you won’t marry me, at least go down to supper with me.”
    “But I can’t, Cousin Alexander, I am promised to Mark for supper. Besides, Father is going to announce the engagement at supper! Isn’t there anyone else you could ask?”
    His humourless smile was her only answer as he returned to his original partner for the closing bars of the dance, his mind working feverishly. He could see his mother with a cluster of women at the ballroom’s exit nearest the library—and then, inspiration! Miss Smythe-Warner was promptly returned to her mama, with his promise to research the history of the castle for her. Before his mother could get a word in, he muttered something about family records ... library, at once ... mustn’t wait for him, he’d be down directly, and disappeared down the hall and through the library door.

 
    SIX
    “Whew!” Carleton took a deep breath in relief. He leaned against the library’s door and wiped his face.
    “Congratulations on your escape,” said a soft voice from shadows across the room, followed by an amused little laugh.
    Carleton’s dismay was genuine. “I am sorry to intrude, madam, I shall leave at once. I did not expect this room to be occupied.”
    “No, don’t go. Of course you would not think the library occupied, not with so many empty heads hanging about. Oh, perhaps I should not have spoken. You are not a friend of Lord Carleton’s, are you? No, I see you are no London Dandy, all done up in