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pairs.
    Shaking aside the odd comment, she set her hands to the keys and let her fingers glide into the introduction to a waltz.
    She knew many; music had always come naturally to her, simply flowed from her fingers, which was why she so often offered to play. She didn’t need to think to do it; she enjoyed it, was comfortable sitting at the piano, and could, as she wished, either lose herself in the music or study the company.
    It was the latter she elected to do that evening.
    What she saw fascinated.
    As was customary, the pianoforte stood at the other end of the large room from the fireplace and the chairs and sofas on which the older members of the company sat. The dancers filled the space between; as few imagined the music maker was not watching her fingers, those couples seeking to use the dance for private communication chose to do so while traversing the side of the room farthest from the sharp eyes of their elders. Thus, directly in front of her.
    She was quite content to move smoothly from one waltz to the next, mixing in a country dance here and there, giving the dancers only enough time to catch their breath and change partners.
    The first thing she noticed was that despite her genuine pleasure in dancing, Kitty was nevertheless pursuing an ulterior aim. Precisely what it was was difficult to discern; Kitty seemed to have more than one gentleman in her sights. She flirted—definitely flirted—with James, her brother-in-law, much to James’s irritation. With Ambrose, she was somewhat less overt, but there was still an inviting glint in her eye and a provocative smile on her lips. Although she watched closely, Portia could not fault Ambrose; he gave Kitty no encouragement at all.
    With Desmond, Kitty was coy; she still flirted, but less overtly still, as if modulating her attack for his different character. Desmond seemed to hesitate, to waver; he did not encourage, but neither did he openly dismiss. But when it came to Simon, and Charlie, too, both seemed locked behind positive walls of disapproval. Kitty challenged them, yet her exhibition lacked conviction, as if with them her performance was all for show.
    Why she bothered, Portia couldn’t imagine; was there something here she was missing?
    Yet when Kitty danced with Henry, her husband, she was unresponsive. She made no effort to hold his attention; indeed, she barely said a word. Henry did his best, but could not quite hide his disappointment and a certain sad, resigned disapproval.
    Of the others, it became quickly apparent that Lucy Buckstead had set her cap at James. She laughed and smiled with all the gentlemen, but with James, she hung on his every word, her eyes huge, sparkling, her lips parted.
    James would have to watch himself, and not just on the Kitty front, a fact Portia suspected he knew; his behavior remained pleasant but cool.
    The Misses Hammond weren’t interested in any liaisons; they were simply there to enjoy themselves and hoped others would enjoy themselves, too. Their youthful exuberance was something of a relief. Drusilla, in contrast, would have sat out the dances at her mother’s side if Lady Calvin had permitted it. Drusilla endured the measures with all the delight of a French aristocrat out for a ride in a tumbril.
    As for Desmond and Winifred, there was quite definitely a romance in the air. It was positively instructional to watch the exchanges—Desmond suggesting, never pushing, not diffident yet not overconfident, Winifred quietly responding, lashes falling, eyes downcast, only to raise her gaze again to his face, to his eyes.
    Portia looked down to hide a smile as she neared the end of the piece. With the last chord played, she decided the dancers could use a short interval while she searched through the stack of music sheets.
    She stood up the better to leaf through them. She was halfway through the pile when she heard the rustle of skirts approaching.
    “Miss Ashford, you’ve played for us so beautifully, but