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ballroom. “Lady Tisdale?”
    Lady Tisdale, the notorious widow in her dampened gold, satin skirts. “Not the Lady Tisdale.” He jerked his chin once toward the young woman in her silly ruffled, yellow skirts.
    His friend caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed. “Er…Lady Alcott?”
    Sebastian closed his eyes a moment and counted to five for patience. “Not the Lady Alcott. That woman,” he said impatiently.
    “Mallen, there are any number of women present. You’ll need to be a bit more specific.”
    “The young lady in the yellow dress.”
    Waxham swept his gaze over the area, at last settling on the lithe stranger. He again wrinkled his brow. “I’ve no idea.”
    “Humph.” How could no one have an idea as to the lady’s identity? Surely someone knew her. Or of her. At the very least a name.
    A dawning understanding glinted in his friend’s hazel eyes. “Ahh,” he said with the same deliberate slowness as one who’d uncovered the tombs of Egypt.
    Sebastian knew enough to not let his friend, sister, mother or anyone in between bait him and yet… “What?” he snapped.
    “I merely am remarking that a young woman has captured your notice.” He paused. “At last. Which will, of course, spare you from your sister and Sophie’s matchmaking.”
    Traitor. Sebastian had known his bachelor state had surely been the topic of discussion between his meddling sister and her dear friend, Sophie. He took a long swallow of champagne, and then blinked, his friend’s words registering.
    He choked around the mouthful of liquor. “She has not captivated me. Well, not in a sense that I’m admiring the lady,” he amended. It had been more those long fingers about the tiny pencil at her wrist that had occupied his attention for too much time now. They really were quite delicious fingers that roused wicked thoughts…if one was the roguish sort. Which he was not…
    “Captured your notice.”
    He yanked his attention back to Waxham. What was the other man on about?
    His friend shot him a pointed glance. “I didn’t say she’d captivated you.” He grinned. “I merely pointed out she’d captured your notice.” Sebastian silently cursed as Waxham pressed on, worse than a matchmaking mama. “I imagine we can easily have Sophie or your sister orchestrate an introduction.”
    “I’m certain.” The answer sprang fast to his lips. He took in the toe-tapping miss. “She certainly doesn’t possess the…oh, go to hell, Waxham,” he mumbled and downed the remaining contents of his crystal flute. His interest in the nondescript woman had nothing to do with any matter of physical awareness but an interest in just what in the devil she’d scribbled onto that card after looking at him.
    Just then, a greying woman in elegant silver satin skirts paused beside the young woman, calling her attention away from Sebastian. The older woman, he searched his mind for the woman’s name…Lady…Pembroke, Pemerley, Pemberly. The matron gestured to the dandified fop beside her.
    Sebastian’s mouth tightened. Lord Whitmore. Known as something of a mother’s boy and one who abused his horseflesh, the young lady, even with her plain, nondescript features could certainly do better in terms of suitors. A good deal better.
    Just then, Whitmore spun on his heel and marched across the ballroom, a crimson splash of color upon his cheeks.
    Lady Pemberly gesticulated wildly, her face flushed. The young woman’s slightly too-full mouth moved rapidly. Whatever she said caused great splotches of color to flood the woman’s cheeks. She spun on her heel and started across the ballroom.
    The young lady stood there a moment, looking about as though to ascertain whether anyone had witnessed her public dressing-down, and then reclaimed her seat.
    He was suddenly filled with a desire to know the odd young woman’s name, which of course made little sense. Marriage-minded misses did not intrigue him.
    Yet, this one did.
    As if