hour of the morning only to have my application denied on account of my inability to name my bride or explain where she lives.”
Oh, the absurd man. He was going to continue with the joke, though his grim face had not relaxed into even the suggestion of a smile.
“I suppose it would,” she agreed.
The orchestra struck up with a lively country dance tune at that moment, and after a short spell of dancing together they moved away from each other in order to perform a series of steps with the couple adjacent to them. When they came together again, it was with the same couple, and there was no chance for private conversation, absurd or otherwise.
This was really very improper, Margaret thought. As he had just reminded her, he did not know her and she did not know him. Yet they were dancing with each other. How on earth would she explain the lapse to Vanessa and Katherine? Or to Stephen? She had always been a stickler for the social niceties.
But she discovered that she did not much care. She was almost enjoying herself. The marquess's announcement—and his assumption that she already knew—had seriously discomposed her.
So had the appearance of Crispin. But here she was dancing and smiling anyway. And there was something definitely amusing about the joke the stranger had set in motion.
How many ladies could boast of meeting a total stranger and being asked to dance with him and marry him—all in one breath?
Her smile widened.
“ Might I be permitted,” the stranger asked her when they were dancing exclusively with each other again, “to know the name of my prospective bride?”
She was tempted to withhold it. But that would be pointless. He could quite easily discover it for himself after they had finished dancing.
“I am Margaret Huxtable,” she told him, “sister of the Earl of Merton.”
“Ah, excellent,” he said. “It is important to marry someone of impeccable lineage—important to one's family anyway.”
“Absolutely, sir,” she agreed. “And you are… ?”
But she had to wait another couple of minutes while the pattern of the dance drew other couples within earshot again.
“Duncan Pennethorne, Earl of Sheringford,” he said without preamble when they were alone again. “The title, I must warn you before you get too excited about marrying it, is a courtesy one and therefore of no real value whatsoever except that it sounds good—and except that it is an indicator that a more real and illustrious title is to follow if and when the incumbent should predecease me. The Marquess of Claverbrook, my grandfather, may well not do so even though he is eighty—or will be in two weeks’ time—and fifty years my senior.”
He had offered a great deal more information than she had asked for.
But it was surprising she had not met him before. And yet… the Earl of Sheringford . Something tugged at the corners of her memory, but she could not pull it into focus. She had the impression that it was something not too pleasant. Something scandalous.
“And where,” he asked, “may I come to claim you tomorrow, Miss Huxtable, marriage license in hand?”
She hesitated again. But it would take him only a moment after he had left her to discover it for himself.
“At Merton House onBerkeley Square ,” she said.
But the joke had continued long enough. As soon as the set was at an end, she decided, she must put as much distance between herself and the Earl of Sheringford as she possibly could. She did not want to encourage him to continue to be as bold and familiar with her as he had been thus far.
She must make some discreet inquiries about him. There was something there in her memory.
Crispin, she could see, was talking with Vanessa and Elliott. It still seemed unreal, seeing him again like this after so many unhappy years. She had not expected ever to see him again after his marriage.
She had expected him, she supposed, to settle inSpain with his wife after the wars were
Oh, the absurd man. He was going to continue with the joke, though his grim face had not relaxed into even the suggestion of a smile.
“I suppose it would,” she agreed.
The orchestra struck up with a lively country dance tune at that moment, and after a short spell of dancing together they moved away from each other in order to perform a series of steps with the couple adjacent to them. When they came together again, it was with the same couple, and there was no chance for private conversation, absurd or otherwise.
This was really very improper, Margaret thought. As he had just reminded her, he did not know her and she did not know him. Yet they were dancing with each other. How on earth would she explain the lapse to Vanessa and Katherine? Or to Stephen? She had always been a stickler for the social niceties.
But she discovered that she did not much care. She was almost enjoying herself. The marquess's announcement—and his assumption that she already knew—had seriously discomposed her.
So had the appearance of Crispin. But here she was dancing and smiling anyway. And there was something definitely amusing about the joke the stranger had set in motion.
How many ladies could boast of meeting a total stranger and being asked to dance with him and marry him—all in one breath?
Her smile widened.
“ Might I be permitted,” the stranger asked her when they were dancing exclusively with each other again, “to know the name of my prospective bride?”
She was tempted to withhold it. But that would be pointless. He could quite easily discover it for himself after they had finished dancing.
“I am Margaret Huxtable,” she told him, “sister of the Earl of Merton.”
“Ah, excellent,” he said. “It is important to marry someone of impeccable lineage—important to one's family anyway.”
“Absolutely, sir,” she agreed. “And you are… ?”
But she had to wait another couple of minutes while the pattern of the dance drew other couples within earshot again.
“Duncan Pennethorne, Earl of Sheringford,” he said without preamble when they were alone again. “The title, I must warn you before you get too excited about marrying it, is a courtesy one and therefore of no real value whatsoever except that it sounds good—and except that it is an indicator that a more real and illustrious title is to follow if and when the incumbent should predecease me. The Marquess of Claverbrook, my grandfather, may well not do so even though he is eighty—or will be in two weeks’ time—and fifty years my senior.”
He had offered a great deal more information than she had asked for.
But it was surprising she had not met him before. And yet… the Earl of Sheringford . Something tugged at the corners of her memory, but she could not pull it into focus. She had the impression that it was something not too pleasant. Something scandalous.
“And where,” he asked, “may I come to claim you tomorrow, Miss Huxtable, marriage license in hand?”
She hesitated again. But it would take him only a moment after he had left her to discover it for himself.
“At Merton House onBerkeley Square ,” she said.
But the joke had continued long enough. As soon as the set was at an end, she decided, she must put as much distance between herself and the Earl of Sheringford as she possibly could. She did not want to encourage him to continue to be as bold and familiar with her as he had been thus far.
She must make some discreet inquiries about him. There was something there in her memory.
Crispin, she could see, was talking with Vanessa and Elliott. It still seemed unreal, seeing him again like this after so many unhappy years. She had not expected ever to see him again after his marriage.
She had expected him, she supposed, to settle inSpain with his wife after the wars were
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