The Pretenders by Joan Wolf

informed him.
    He chuckled. “All right, all right.” His face sobered. “According to the incredibly tedious rules of Lady Jersey and her cohorts on the Ladies Committee of Almack’s, I am only allowed two dances with you. We will make one the supper dance—and what about this next quadrille?”
    “Certainly, my lord,” I said sedately. ”That will leave you an ample amount of time to dance with Mama, and Mrs. Stucky and Lady Larchmont.”
    He sighed. “Oh, all right”
    The music ended, and he took my hand and led me out to the floor.
    The Larchmont ball proceeded much along the lines of the Meryton ball the evening before. Reeve did dance more, as he had promised me he would, but he also spent an inordinate amount of time holding up the wall with his shoulders. He did not look as bored, however, as a number of his friends were in attendance this evening and so he had some men to talk to. He and his friends also spent a good deal of time frequenting the punch bowl, and by the time he came to claim me for the supper dance his eyes were looking distinctly glazed.
    “You need air, not a dance,” I proclaimed as soon as I saw him, and taking his arm, I steered him through the French doors at the back of the ballroom, which opened onto a terrace. It was a warm night, and the shrubbery hiding the back garden from the stables gave off a scent that almost made one feel one was in the country.
    “I am not foxed,” Reeve said in an injured voice.
    “I didn’t say you were foxed,” I replied.
    “Well, you implied it.”
    “Your eyes look glassy.”
    “That is because I am bored,” he said, his voice even more injured than before.
    He
was
foxed, I knew, and I also knew that he was foxed precisely because he was bored. Clearly he didn’t like these large society balls. Nor had he been happy during the few drives in the park we had taken since our arrival in London. Not for Reeve the slow, stately procession of vehicles that made up the afternoon ritual of the
ton
.
    “It seems to me that you are not overly fond of London, Reeve,” I said in a voice that I strove to keep light. ”Everything bores you.”
    He shrugged. “There are a few things that are all right. It’s good fun having a go at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon, and I like practicing my shooting at Man-ton’s and my swordplay at Angelo’s. As for the rest of it… the clubs, the dances, Almack’s…” He shuddered, then raised his voice. “Damn it, Deb, why do you think I bought a racehorse? I needed some excitement in my life!”
    You don’t need excitement, Reeve, I thought. You need to have the sole control of Ambersley. You need to be in charge of your own land, your own people, your own heritage. A racehorse is not the answer to your restlessness.
    It had long been perfectly clear to me that one of the reasons why Reeve got into so much trouble was that he had nothing meaningful to do with himself. I had never been able to comprehend why Lord Bradford did not understand this. It was precisely because Reeve had no say in the running of his own property that he avoided Ambersley. And the more time he spent in London, the more dangerous his activities became. The drinking, the gambling, the outrageous stunts, the opera dancers, all of the things that Lord Bradford so deplored, would probably cease if Reeve could only have control of his own destiny.
    I believed this most profoundly. In truth, it was the main reason why I had agreed to this shocking masquerade. I had made his threat that he was going to sell his hunters an excuse for me to go along with him. Reeve and I had been friends for a long time, and I felt an obligation to help him if I could.
    We stood together on the terrace of Larchmont House, and I looked up at him in the dim glow cast by the light coming from inside the ballroom. I said urgently, “Reeve, don’t do anything to cause Lord Bradford to think he has made a mistake in promising to turn over half of your