An Extraordinary Flirtation by Maggie MacKeever

is beyond outrageous. You may also give up trying to provoke me, and mind your manners, please.”
    It was very shabby of her aunt to scold when Zoe had behaved herself quite well this evening thus far. She hadn’t spun around the floor for two successive dances with any gentleman, or granted three dances to any of her beaux; hadn’t done anything without being told she might; hadn’t screamed with boredom until she was purple in the face.
    She thrust out her lower lip. “I hope you don’t mean to load me with reproaches, Aunt Cara. It would be far too great a bore. ‘Shocking,’ ‘imprudent,’ ‘displeasing’—I’ve heard it all before. Since I haven’t a grain of proper feeling, you might as well save your breath. Anyway, I don’t plan to make a byword of myself. And what would it matter if I did?”
    “I thought you had a partiality for Lord Mannering,” Ianthe interrupted, faintly. “Don’t you wish to be a marchioness?”
    “Of course I have a partiality,” retorted Zoe. “Lord Mannering is so very manly, don’t you think? He may even turn out to be my True Love. But Beau says I am too young to marry, and he should know, for he married young himself.” Although Zoe did not rule out an elopement. Perhaps she would run off to Gretna Green with Lord Mannering, and then leave him languishing somewhere pale and brokenhearted, which would be a feather in any maiden’s cap. “I mean to Experience Life before I marry. If I’ve learned anything from Beau, it is that one should try on the shoe to see if it fits before purchasing it.” She snickered. “Look at the two of you, gasping like a pair of fish!”
    No wonder Ianthe had turned into a wet-goose. Cara felt somewhat whimpery herself. “Because you are behaving badly!” she retorted. “Strive for a little conduct, or I shall take you home.” Zoe’s lip protruded further. Cara added, “And if you pout at me much longer, your face will freeze that way.”
    Zoe didn’t wish to be forever pouting. She nibbled on her lower lip instead. Nor did she care to leave the rout so early. She had not yet contrived to waltz with Lord Mannering, stand face-to-face with him, with her hand on his shoulder, and his hand on her waist, at which point the feeling of her in his arms would doubtless tempt him to yearn to take liberties.
    The evening was not over yet. Nor was dinner. Perhaps during dinner Lord Mannering might be so bewitched by the pulse fluttering daintily in her throat that he would lose his appetite, or at the very least drop his fork on the floor.
    * * * *
    “But I don’t want to have dinner with that little baggage!” protested Baron Fitzrichard, as Nick steered him inexorably through the crowd. Reluctant as he may have been to attend Lady Miller’s rout, Fitz had risen sartorially to the occasion, the highlight of his costume a pale pink waistcoat patterned all over in roses, worn over a second of plain rose, with a corbeau-colored coat boasting exaggerated shoulders and gilt buttons, Florentine silk breeches, white stockings, and buttoned shoes. He had additionally contemplated a patch at one corner of his mouth until his valet persuaded him that so dramatic a fashion statement should be preserved for a more important affair. Instead, he had settled for the quizzing glass, which he wielded frequently to good effect. In contrast, Lord Mannering was almost somber in a dark blue evening coat, white waistcoat, black pantaloons buttoned tight to the ankle and strapped over varnished black shoes.
    Fitz glimpsed the Loversall ladies then, and stared. Granted, they were all three lovely, but his attention was primarily for Ianthe, not because of her overwhelming beauty, but because she had taken too much to heart Fitz’s instruction that there should be one predominating color in a lady’s costume to which the rest should be subordinate, as in a piece of music there was a relation between the successive sounds or notes. Fitz wouldn’t go so far