floor to exclaim, "Really, Nigel, it's too bad in you. Cassie will never lack for partners. You must stop monopolizing her and ask Amanda Billingsley to dance. She's such a dab of a girl, no one will notice her unless someone makes an effort. Off with you. There's a good boy." A firm hand in the small of his back accompanied these words. Nigel rose dutifully and lumbered over to the corner where Miss Billingsley, keeping close to her mama, was timidly observing the scene.
Once Nigel had departed, Cassie found herself approached by several young gallants eager to discover all they could about one of the Season's more attractive new faces. She conversed dutifully with them, but her mind was on a thousand other things—the latest piece of work she was doing for the comte, a scratch on her horse's fetlock which seemed to be developing an infection—and all of her partners remained an indistinct blur to her. At last she was able to welcome a moment of respite between dances when she could stand quietly in the shadows and observe the throng around her. The lights and the crush of people made her yearn for the green fields of Hampshire and the exhilarating feelings of freshness and freedom as she galloped across them. How she longed for that solitude. In no time at all the moment of peace was interrupted by conversation behind her.
"My dear, you must tell me who that divine man is," drawled an affected voice.
"I have not the remotest idea, but he looks just like Byron's Corsair. Do let us stroll in that direction," replied her companion with a fashionable lisp easily identified as belonging to Arabella Taylor.
Try as she might, Cassie could not refrain from glancing toward the end of the room where something appeared to have attracted a throng of people. Involuntarily she found herself drawn toward the center of the commotion, which she judged to be a tall dark-haired man whose broad- shouldered back was toward her. He was speaking to Lady Jersey, but as Cassie approached he turned toward the center of the room and she found herself looking at a tanned hawklike face whose swarthiness was rendered even more striking by the dark blue eyes under black brows. Their gaze alighted on Cassie and a singularly attractive smile erased the cynical lines around the well-shaped mouth and softened his somewhat sardonic expression. "Cassie," he exclaimed, holding out a hand.
Bereft of speech, Cassie extended hers, wondering how this stranger could possibly know her. The mystery was solved in an instant as another much beloved face appeared at the stranger's elbow. "Freddie, Ned," she shouted joyfully, gripping the hand that lifted hers to his lips.
One eyebrow lifted quizzically. "Am I that changed then, best of playmates?" Ned inquired in an amused voice.
"N-no, not exactly," stammered Cassie in an unusual state of confusion. But he was changed! True, the shock of dark hair that would fall over his forehead seemed in danger of doing so again despite his elegant crop. The eager, intelligent glance remained, but it was altered somehow by an ironic gleam that seemed to mock its owner as much as it did the company around him. The finely chiseled lips were firmer and less inclined to smile, while the lines at either side indicated that most of these smiles were more likely to result from derision than genuine amusement.
Ned, looking down at his companion, found a less physically noticeable but equally disconcerting transformation. The hair, done a la couronne, a style much admired by Horace, seemed too severe for the unruly curls he remembered. The teasing sparkle in the eyes had been replaced by a more serious, almost somber expression. Ned found himself wondering what could have happened to quench the rebellious spirit he remembered.
This mutual examination was broken by an exuberant Bertie Montgomery, who strode over exclaiming jubilantly as he wrung Freddie's hand, "Freddie, my boy!" He nodded in Ned's direction. "Wonderful to see you
Once Nigel had departed, Cassie found herself approached by several young gallants eager to discover all they could about one of the Season's more attractive new faces. She conversed dutifully with them, but her mind was on a thousand other things—the latest piece of work she was doing for the comte, a scratch on her horse's fetlock which seemed to be developing an infection—and all of her partners remained an indistinct blur to her. At last she was able to welcome a moment of respite between dances when she could stand quietly in the shadows and observe the throng around her. The lights and the crush of people made her yearn for the green fields of Hampshire and the exhilarating feelings of freshness and freedom as she galloped across them. How she longed for that solitude. In no time at all the moment of peace was interrupted by conversation behind her.
"My dear, you must tell me who that divine man is," drawled an affected voice.
"I have not the remotest idea, but he looks just like Byron's Corsair. Do let us stroll in that direction," replied her companion with a fashionable lisp easily identified as belonging to Arabella Taylor.
Try as she might, Cassie could not refrain from glancing toward the end of the room where something appeared to have attracted a throng of people. Involuntarily she found herself drawn toward the center of the commotion, which she judged to be a tall dark-haired man whose broad- shouldered back was toward her. He was speaking to Lady Jersey, but as Cassie approached he turned toward the center of the room and she found herself looking at a tanned hawklike face whose swarthiness was rendered even more striking by the dark blue eyes under black brows. Their gaze alighted on Cassie and a singularly attractive smile erased the cynical lines around the well-shaped mouth and softened his somewhat sardonic expression. "Cassie," he exclaimed, holding out a hand.
Bereft of speech, Cassie extended hers, wondering how this stranger could possibly know her. The mystery was solved in an instant as another much beloved face appeared at the stranger's elbow. "Freddie, Ned," she shouted joyfully, gripping the hand that lifted hers to his lips.
One eyebrow lifted quizzically. "Am I that changed then, best of playmates?" Ned inquired in an amused voice.
"N-no, not exactly," stammered Cassie in an unusual state of confusion. But he was changed! True, the shock of dark hair that would fall over his forehead seemed in danger of doing so again despite his elegant crop. The eager, intelligent glance remained, but it was altered somehow by an ironic gleam that seemed to mock its owner as much as it did the company around him. The finely chiseled lips were firmer and less inclined to smile, while the lines at either side indicated that most of these smiles were more likely to result from derision than genuine amusement.
Ned, looking down at his companion, found a less physically noticeable but equally disconcerting transformation. The hair, done a la couronne, a style much admired by Horace, seemed too severe for the unruly curls he remembered. The teasing sparkle in the eyes had been replaced by a more serious, almost somber expression. Ned found himself wondering what could have happened to quench the rebellious spirit he remembered.
This mutual examination was broken by an exuberant Bertie Montgomery, who strode over exclaiming jubilantly as he wrung Freddie's hand, "Freddie, my boy!" He nodded in Ned's direction. "Wonderful to see you
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