‘Yes, in fact I believe your arrival has surpassed tonight’s latest sensation.’
His grandmother stepped closer and lowered her voice. ‘Really, Lady Cowper? Do tell.’
‘That American author Vandenberg is here, with his daughter. I understand the man is entertaining, and his daughter is quite accomplished.’
Julian’s heart skipped a beat, and he fought the urge to scan the assembly room for her.
His grandmother’s eyes widened a little too much. ‘Really? They are here tonight? I would enjoy making the man’s acquaintance. A Traveler’s Tale is a most enjoyable read.’
‘I am certain Madame de Lieven can introduce you. She has sponsored the family.’ She leaned in close and lowered her voice. ‘We were astonished when she promoted the Americans. However, I find they comport themselves surprisingly well.’
‘Americans are not the provincials some imagine them to be,’ Julian stated firmly, feeling an inexplicable need to come to their defence.
Both women stared at him in surprise, before Lady Cowper narrowed her gaze. ‘Surely you’re aware that we have seen very few American women in our circles? It was difficult to determine how they would behave.’
His grandmother began to cough, and Julian would not have been surprised if she had dramatically thrown herself on the floor to enhance the effect.
‘My word, do you require assistance?’ Lady Cowper asked with true concern.
His grandmother shook her head and the coughing miraculously stopped. ‘A glass of lemonade should help ease the tickle in my throat,’ she said, patting her chest. She grasped Julian’s sleeve and gave it a subtle tug, leaving him no choice but to walk with her to the refreshment table.
He handed her a glass and held back a laugh when she poured in some clear liquid from a small silver flask. He wasn’t certain what she had added, but as long as it was potent he didn’t really care. Selecting a glass, he held it out to her, and she added a generous splash. The smell of gin reached Julian’s nose as he raised the glass to his lips. If his father had been alive now the man would have had an apoplexy, knowing the matriarch of their family carried gin on her person. However, if it would help Julian survive an evening in the marriage mart he would not admonish her.
‘Do you see her?’ his grandmother asked as her gaze trailed over the room.
He had known she was up to something! He took a long drink. ‘To whom are you referring?’
‘Oh, I think you know.’
‘What exactly are you plotting?’
‘Why do you believe I am plotting anything?’ she asked, arching an inquisitive brow.
‘I am not dim-witted,’ replied Julian, and he arched his brow in return.
‘No, you are not.’
‘That was not an answer.’
‘What was the question?’
He momentarily closed his eyes. When he looked back at her the glass in her hand was empty. ‘I’m trying to decide if it is wise to give you more lemonade.’
She reached behind him and took another glass. ‘You do not need to attend to me all evening. You should look around. You might find someone of interest.’
Julian eyed his grandmother in annoyance. Why did the women in his life seem to have this need to meddle in his affairs? He stood near her, refusing to give any indication that he was in search of a wife. However, this time when his gaze travelled across the room he easily spotted Miss Vandenberg amid the whirl of white. He was transfixed as he watched her attempt to move gracefully through a quadrille with that idiot Lord Boreham.
‘Are you going to dance with her?’ the pest at his side whispered.
He glanced down at her. ‘I have no desire to dance this evening.’
‘Forgive me. I thought you had found something that held your attention. I must have been mistaken.’
‘You most certainly were,’ he replied, his eyes inexplicably drawn back to the dancing couple.
She lowered her voice even further. ‘If that is Miss Vandenberg, Madame de Lieven will know if she has been given permission to waltz.’
Julian stared at his grandmother, aghast. ‘I have never waltzed here, and I do not intend to do so now.’
However, if they did waltz together he would have her undivided attention. She would not be able to leave the conversation when it was convenient for her, as she had each time they’d spoken in the past.
A smile tugged at his lips as he watched her walk off the dance floor.
* * *
When the quadrille ended Katrina returned to Mrs Forrester and Sarah, who were standing near one of the white gilded columns. She was grateful for the reprieve.
‘You appear to have both feet intact,’ Sarah teased. ‘Perhaps Lord Boreham has taken dancing lessons.’
Fanning herself to cool her heated body, Katrina smirked. ‘No, I have simply become adept at hiding my pain.’
‘Did you hear about the caricature that was printed of him recently?’ Sarah asked, staring questioningly into her glass of lemonade.
Most of these satires mocked political figures and the Prince Regent. Katrina knew there were others that were drawn of certain members of the ton, but since she was fairly new to London, and not well acquainted with too many people, she never paid much attention to them. However, now she was intrigued. ‘What does it look like?’
Sarah glanced over at Lord Boreham, who was standing a few feet away with a group of young bucks. ‘In it he is sprawled on the ground at the entrance to the Palace of Westminster. I do not recall the caption, but the image was memorable. A number of the dandies standing with him now were having a good laugh over it last evening.’
Although she was not fond of the marquess, Katrina felt sorry for him. It must be mortifying to have someone you didn’t know make a mockery of your life.
‘Katrina, if you persist in moving your fan so rapidly I fear the lady behind you will discover her peacock-feathered cap flying away!’ advised Mrs Forrester.
Katrina slowed her hand. ‘Pardon me, but it is so warm in here. I’m looking forward to stepping through the next dance just to create a breeze.’
‘A waltz would do nicely,’ Sarah said.
Katrina leaned in closer. ‘I cannot believe we need permission to waltz here. I have been waltzing all over Europe, and now someone of no relation to me must give their consent.’
‘Well, I find it unusual that men cannot wear trousers here,’ Sarah said, scanning the stocking-clad calves of the men around them. ‘What an odd rule.’
‘Perhaps the patronesses are using their influence as an excuse to admire
