regard the past as over! That way you may start afresh as friends!”
Polly sighed, reaching for the teapot. It was hopeless to try to explain to Lucille that gently bred ladies simply did not seek a gentleman out in order to engage him in a conversation of an intimate and personal nature. Disagreements such as the one Polly had with Lord Henry were simply to be ignored or endured. Lucille, who had earned a living as a schoolteacher before her marriage to the Earl, had no time for what she saw as the pointless prevarications of polite society, but Polly could no more approach Lord Henry than fly to the moon.
“You are great friends with Harry Marchnight,” Polly said lightly, trying not to let her envy show. “I doubt I could achieve your familiarity with him!”
“No, but I am a married lady—” Lucille broke off at Polly’s irrepressible burst of laughter, arching her eyebrows enquiringly. “Why, whatever have I said?”
“Married ladies are precisely the type Lord Henry prefers, so I hear,” Polly said drily.
“Oh, but—” For a moment Lucille looked confused, before regaining her poise. “Oh, no, it is not in the least like that! I am glad to have Harry’s esteem, but that is all there is to it! Why, to suggest anything else would be pure folly!”
Polly smiled, unconvinced. It was true that not even the ton, with its penchant for intrigue, had suggested anything improper in the relationship between the two, but that did not mean that Lord Henry might not wish it so. Lucille, totally absorbed in her husband, would be the last person to realise. Polly, thinking now of the consuming passion between Lucille and Nick Seagrave, shifted slightly in her chair. They were always perfectly proper in their behaviour in company, but it only needed one look…Polly sometimes thought that if any man ever looked at her with that explicit mixture of warmth and sensual demand she would faint dead away. But perhaps Lucille was lucky. Perhaps she was the unlucky one, hidebound by a conventional upbringing in a house where preserving the surface calm had always been all important.
The problem of Lord Henry Marchnight twitched at the corner of her mind again. Lucille was right, of course. Polly did not delude herself that there was any chance of re-establishing a rapport with Lord Henry, and under the circumstances, it was both foolish and pointless to be forever dwelling on the past. Perhaps she could at least try to put matters to rights. If she could find the right words to convey a genteel acceptance that they had both been young and foolish…It might suffice and put an end to awkwardness.
“I will try to speak to Lord Henry if I have an opportunity,” Polly agreed hesitantly. “I understand what you mean, Lucille. It is just so difficult…” She despised herself for her lack of spirit, even as her mind shrank from the thought of broaching such a personal subject with someone who was, to all intents and purposes, a stranger. Yet Lucille was also right that their social circle was relatively small: to try to avoid someone was always difficult. Friends always seemed to have other mutual friends or acquaintances and an invitation or chance meeting could prove awkward.
Lucille took a biscuit and poured a second cup of tea. “I own it will be a relief to have the matter settled,” she said with a candid smile. “Then I may stop worrying about you and turn my attention to Peter and Hetty! They are causing me great concern!”
“It must have been a great blow for Hetty when Mrs Markham’s ill health led to the postponment of the wedding,” Polly commented, secretly glad that Lucille had turned the subject. “But what do you mean, Lucille? How can Peter be giving you cause for concern?”
Lucille frowned. Polly’s brother and her own foster sister had been intending to wed that spring, but the marriage had been delayed indefinitely since Hetty’s mother had succumbed to the dropsy.
“You know how silly Hetty became at the start of the Season,” Lucille said, a little crossly. “Of course, she is very young and I think her head was turned by all the attention she received, but I thought that once she had returned to the country she might regain some of her natural sense! But only today I have had a letter from her telling me that Lord Grantley is in Essex and paying her lavish attentions! And your brother is as bad, Polly, for instead of posting down to Kingsmarton to see Hetty and untangle matters he persists in staying in Town, and last night at Lady Coombes’s ball he was paying the most outrageous attentions to Maria Leverstoke…”
“But I thought she was Lord Henry’s flirt,” Polly said, studiously picking an imaginary thread off Fanchon’s latest confection, and politely avoiding a description of Lady Leverstoke that might have been more appropriate but less discreet.
Lucille made an airy gesture. “That may be so, but she seemed smitten enough with Peter last night! He is become the most dreadful philanderer! You are for Lady Phillips’s ridotto tonight, are you not? Only watch, and you will see just what I mean!”
Chapter Two
Lady Phillips’s ridotto was one of the major social events of the Season, but already the June weather had turned hot, prompting some of the ton to leave London for their country estates or the cooling breezes of the seaside. Nevertheless, there was a great crush at the house in Berkeley Square and, even with the french windows flung wide open the temperature in the ballroom was enough to make the guests perspire unbecomingly.
Almost the first person Polly saw on entering the crowded reception room was Lord Henry Marchnight, lavishing his attentions in a thoroughly improper way on a lady in bright scarlet satin. Polly, trying to ignore the pang of misery that assailed her, considered that the colour of the lady’s outfit was an all-too-appropriate choice.
“Lady Melton,” hissed the Dowager Countess of Seagrave to her daughter, “married to his lordship but a twelvemonth ago and already driving him to his grave with her extravagance and her affaires! So Lady Phillips is letting the demi-monde patronise her ball! I should have expected her to exercise more judgement!”
Polly raised her brows. The Dowager Countess was very high in the instep and would never countenance such guests at one of her own events, but not all ton hostesses were as discerning. A moment later, Polly heard her mother give a stifled groan, halfway between a shriek and a moan, almost as though she were in pain. The Dowager Countess had stopped dead in the middle of the marbled floor.
Polly stopped too and turned enquiringly to her mother. “Mama, are you quite well?”
“Yes, only look! No, not over there…over by that pillar! The strumpet!”
Startled, Polly turned to scan the room. There were plenty of faces she recognised, but none surely to give rise to such vehemence in the Dowager Countess’s breast. Why, her mother had gone quite pale, though whether with shock, anger or illness it was impossible to tell. Then, she saw the reason.
“Good Lord—” The exclamation had escaped before she could help herself.
“Polly, you will not take the name of the Lord in vain!” the Dowager Countess said energetically. She seemed slightly restored by her daughter’s inadvertent slip into blasphemy.
“Yes, Mama, I am sorry, but it is Peter and—”
“I am as capable as the next person of recognising your brother,” the Dowager snapped. “We cannot acknowledge him, however! Come this way! Thank God that Nicholas and Lucille are not present tonight! That brass-faced trollop is always trying to embarrass us!” She took Polly’s arm in a tight grip and positively pulled her towards the ballroom.
“I thought that Peter had taken up with Lady Leverstoke,” Polly said, obediently allowing herself to be steered
