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you would wish?”
    “No . . . no.” Reluctantly, Lavinia dragged her gaze from her son. She’d come to the ball in Lady Eccles’s carriage. “I’m sure they’ll manage perfectly well without any intervention from me—and I, too, promised Elvira I would make an appearance.”
    “Right then.” Lady Eccles turned toward the ballroom steps. “Let’s be off.”
    After one last, quietly delighted glance at the tableau across the ballroom, Lavinia followed.
    Mary, meanwhile, had struck the first serious hurdle along her path to wedded bliss. Namely Randolph’s—and his friends’—lack of conversational depth. She was an excellent horsewoman, loved riding, and was reasonably fond of horses as well, but there was more to life than horse races, curricle races, and the hunt. After Miss Melchett’s exposition of the play at the Haymarket, George Richards had reseized the conversational reins and rather bluntly drawn Randolph from their discussion of playwrights to ask him about some mare who had won the last race at Newmarket two weeks before.
    Randolph had replied to George’s query with far greater alacrity—and detail—than he had to her own. Randolph had then swung the conversation to the latest sale at Tattersalls.
    With the air of one driven beyond bearing, Miss Fotheringay had spoken up the instant Randolph and Julius Gatling had finished exchanging views on the nags sold and the sums paid. “Has anyone visited Kew Gardens recently? The new conservatory is particularly fine.”
    Despite the obvious desperation and consequent weakness of the gambit, Mary, Miss Melchett, and Colette did their level best to keep the conversation on plants, herbs, and anything other than horses.
    Mary had a strong suspicion that Julius knew precisely what he was doing when he seized on the mention of feverfew to swing the conversation back to the poultice his stableman recommended for a bruised hock.
    Jaw setting, Mary glanced around the circle. Exasperated desperation—or was it desperate exasperation?—shone in the other young ladies’ eyes. Were all young men really this . . . young?
    This immature?
    Randolph, she felt sure, was not—could not be so—but thus far she’d only interacted with him in the presence of his cronies. Clearly, she needed to separate him from his pack.
    As if in answer to her need, the strains of the first waltz of the evening floated out over the room. Brightening, she turned expectantly to Randolph, only to see a positively hunted expression flash across his face. He looked across the circle, to where Colette had turned, as expectantly as Mary, and was waiting for Grayson to ask her to dance.
    Grayson looked at Randolph, then glanced at George, for all the world as if none of them had ever waltzed before, which was nonsense.
    Looking back at Randolph, Mary saw his features briefly shift, signaling to his friends: If we must, we must .
    But before she could do more than blink, Randolph smiled and bowed. “If you would grant me the honor of this dance, Miss Cynster?”
    If his bow was a poor imitation of Ryder’s, and his voice held no subtly suggestive undertones, at least he’d asked. Mary smiled and extended her hand. “Thank you, Lord Randolph. I would like to dance.”
    Taking her hand, Randolph smiled. “Please—just Randolph.”
    Telling herself that it was unrealistic to expect to feel any flash of awareness from his perfectly correct holding of her hand, Mary allowed him to lead her to the floor. She stepped into his arms, eager anticipation bubbling in her veins.
    It would happen now. Whatever needed to spark would surely come alive as they waltzed.
    Taking her in his arms, Randolph stepped out and whirled them into the circling throng. He was a creditable dancer, but she’d expected nothing less.
    Yet as they revolved down the room, sedately twirling, entirely within the constraints of the strictest mores, she realized she had, in fact, expected more, but that was Ryder’s