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before spying Mrs. Mayfield and heading purposefully towards her. He ignored a few hostile looks as he made his way through the largely Whig crowd. By inviting St. Mars, Lord Eppington had proved himself an advocate of the new politeness, which maintained that party differences should be set aside for the enjoyment of society. Hester was glad for the openness that had brought St. Mars within their circle, even if she had no illusions about his interest in her. It was enough simply to have known such a perfect gentleman.
    He seemed to sense her scrutiny, so she averted her gaze until his arrival could render her attention more appropriate. But those few moments’ lack of guard had been enough to set her pulse to thumping. No matter how hard she tried to restrain it, her heart would always flutter when my Lord St. Mars was about.
    St. Mars never gave the impression of a gentleman who belonged in a ballroom, although none could fault either his manners or his dress. The trouble was the feeling that issued from him, of an immense energy threatening to burst its restraints—a need for greater space than a ballroom allowed, which always left Hester with the sense that he would rather be flying over hedges on a horse than sitting inside. She had formed this opinion of him when he had made his initial call upon Isabella only two months ago. Although his deportment had been without exception correct, Mrs. Mayfield’s drawing room had scarcely seemed large enough to hold him.
    As he reached them and greetings began, Hester was at last free to take in his handsome features, the grace in his movements, and the sinewy strength of his hands.
    St. Mars made them each a courtly bow, Hester included. Not for Lord St. Mars the sneering nod or the indifferent stare. His lordship’s manners were so engaging, he made each recipient of his attention believe he had no one else in mind. The smile he gave Hester was both inclusive and warm. It sent a tingle down her spine, even as she noted how soon his gaze left hers to search the crowd for Isabella.
    “Your servant, Mrs. Mayfield, Mrs. Kean, Harrowby. I do not see Mrs. Isabella Mayfield this evening. I hope she is well?”
    This was another thing that Hester appreciated about St Mars. He never neglected to address her as a lady. Her aunt had often slighted her when presenting her to Isabella’s suitors, who usually followed her lead. Lord St. Mars had just as politely ignored it.
    Mrs. Mayfield was answering his question. “My Isabella is as well as can be expected, my lord, for a girl as has had to dance these past three hours and more without a moment’s break.” Her look was arch as she pointed her fan towards Isabella, who was curtsying to the Duke. “I vow, I shall have to put my foot down and insist that she rest a bit before supper, else she’ll never choke down a bite, she’ll be so worn out.”
    St. Mars’s blue eyes dimmed as he noticed the identity of Isabella’s partner, and Hester’s heart went out to him. Something about him this evening did not appear quite right. He seemed unnaturally subdued, and his face was colourless above the white lace at his throat.
    “I hope you will not be adamant on that subject, ma’am, before I have had a chance to dance with her myself.”
    “Why, as to that—” Mrs. Mayfield began coyly—she would not wish to offend St. Mars, not until the Duke was firmly caught— “I think I could bring her to take one more for your lordship’s sake. But it would seem, my lord, that if you was wishing for my daughter’s hand in a dance, you would have come earlier this evening. You know how sought after my Isabella is.”
    “I wished to do so, but was detained. Nothing but an urgent call from Rotherham Abbey could have made me appear this late.”
    “From your papa?” Mrs. Mayfield asked, a bit too eagerly. “Now, what can Lord Hawkhurst have wanted, I wonder?”
    The freezing look Lord St. Mars gave her was so unlike him that Hester winced