A Certain Magic by Mary Balogh

confined to a bed and a nursery for more than a week does that to a person, you know.”
    Mary refused to move from her bed, claiming that she had discovered more spots just that morning and was sickening for a second dose of the measles.
    Alice joined Phoebe in the drawing room for tea. When she saw her sister-in-law, she felt guilty for all the uncharitable thoughts she had been entertaining all day. Phoebe was flushed and heavy-eyed, and her voice had a deeper tone than usual.
    “I am hagged,” was all she said when Alice asked after her health.
    “You look feverish, Phoebe.” Alice said. “Are you sure you should not be in bed?”
    “I cannot take to my bed,” Phoebe said, dabbing a handkerchief at her temples. “There is the Partiton ball this evening. Amanda cannot miss that of all things. It is to be the grandest occasion of the Season so far.”
    “But with so many entertainments every day,” Alice said, seating herself behind the teapot since Phoebe made no move to do so, and proceeding to pour, “surely it will be no disaster to miss one. Amanda will understand, I am sure.”
    “It is out of the question,” Phoebe said, laying her head back against a cushion and closing her eyes.
    “Do you have a headache?” Alice asked.
    “It will go away once I have drunk some tea,” her sister-in-law replied. 
    “And a sore throat, Phoebe?”
    Her sister-in-law did not reply.
    Alice frowned and poured a cup of tea for herself. “Have you ever had the measles?” she asked.
    Phoebe opened weary eyes. “I must have,” she said. “All children have the measles, do they not? And Amanda and Jarvis had them as children.”
    “I remember,” Alice said. “You wrote to tell me. Were you and Bruce not forced to leave your aunt’s in Kent sooner than you planned in order to return home to the children?” 
    “Ah, yes,” Phoebe said vaguely.
    “They were probably not infectious by the time you got home,” Alice said. She set the teapot down. “I hope I am wrong, Phoebe, but I do believe you have taken the infection.”
    “Nonsense!” her sister-in-law said crossly. “Ladies of forty do not have the measles, Alice.”
    But measles or not, she was forced to agree to lie down immediately after tea, in the hope that she would feel well enough to attend the Partiton ball. By dinnertime, however, it was clear that she was not even well enough to come downstairs.
    Bruce was in the blackest of moods, especially when Amanda, who had returned from a friend’s house only an hour before, suggested that he accompany her to the ball instead of her mother. 
    “Out of the question,” he said. “I am expected at Brooks’. If your mother is too ill, your aunt will have to take you instead.”
    “Aunt Alice?” Amanda turned wide, anxious eyes on her. “Will you? Oh, please.” 
    Alice felt a wave of amusement as she was being driven home a half hour later in Bruce’s carriage in order that she might be ready in time to accompany Amanda to the ball. So much for her decision of the night before not to attend any other social event during her stay in London. She was about to appear at a grander ball than any she had every attended with Web during their infrequent visits to town. Even when she was to be merely a chaperon, it was a heady prospect. She doubted that she had any gown quite grand enough.
    ***
    This business of choosing another bride was much like a game, Mr. Westhaven thought as he stood in the Partiton ballroom, quizzing glass in hand, surveying the crowd around him. A most diverting game, though one requiring considerable skill. For if one did not take care, one was likely to find oneself leg-shackled before one had quite steeled one’s mind to relinquish one’s freedom. 
    He could permit himself to look, even with the aid of his quizzing glass. He could permit himself to smile, to converse, to dance, to promenade with a sweet young thing on his arm. He could permit himself to charm