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Demon’s lips twitched and he very deliberately lifted his hand and tapped the side of his nose.

What was that? What did that mean? What did—

The murmuring from behind her pulled her attention back to the ballroom.

Well, no one was looking at her any longer. Instead, the gathered crowd’s attention had swung to the center of the dance floor.

Where a red-faced Thorne was engaged in some sort of…fit?

As the orchestra played the same catchy stanza over and over again, Thorne held up his two hands and bounced the tightened fingers against the thumbs four times—twice on each beat—as if he was mimicking the movement of a mouth, or controlling a hand puppet.

Then he immediately tucked both hands into each armpit and flapped his elbows; again, four times, twice on each beat.

Then he wiggled his rear end, very deliberately and provocatively, as if he had long feathers up his arse.

Then he clapped four times and turned in a new direction, before repeating the process.

What the—

“Beetle-headed hedgehog,” muttered Demon. “He looks like a chicken.”

Georgia cocked her head and studied him, even as Demon’s mother stepped out onto the dance floor and joined in the—dance? Was that supposed to be a dance? Likely, Lady Endymion thought this was going to be the Next Big Thing.

“To be fair, it does seem to go with all the feathers,” Felicity whispered from her other side.

Demon scoffed, as he tugged at her hand. “I asked the buffoon for a distraction, no’ to invent a new—Toad-spotted crock-biscuits! They’re all trying it?”

“I’ve never heard that curse before,” muttered Felicity.

Georgia didn’t bother hiding her smile. “Thorne is very well-liked.”

“He’ll never be able to look them in the face again. Going down in history as the inventor of the Chicken Dance, for fook’s sake.” The new Duke of Lickwick shook his head. “Come along, while nae one is watching us.”

When he tugged her hand again, Georgia followed willingly. Happily. He pulled her behind one of the doors, and when she fully saw the room, she sucked in a delighted gasp.

The walls were lined with bookshelves, and yes, there were books on them, but in front of the books, lining the windowsill, on every tabletop and level surface…

There were vases. Vases of flowers of every color and scent. From a distance she could only recognize a few—gardenias, geraniums, and were those Gerbera daisies?—but they appeared to have been collected by someone who knew very little about flowers and what went together.

They were perfect.

Demon pulled her right into the center of the room, stopped, then turned to face her. He took both her hands in his, took a deep breath, and paused. Then he shook his head, dropped her hands, ran his through his hair, blew out the breath, and shifted his weight.

It was almost comical.

So she decided she’d be the one to start. “Demon, I am sorry—”

“Shitenuggets!” The words burst from his lips incredulously. “Nay, Georgia, I shouldnae—” He scowled and shook his head. “I’m sorry. That’s no’ what I wanted to say. Ye have nothing to apologize for, and I’ll no’ accept any apology, anyway.”

Still scowling, he lifted aside his jacket and reached into his breast pocket. His hand emerged brandishing a well-worn piece of paper, one which had clearly been folded and refolded. Now he wielded it triumphantly, fluttering it before her nose.

“Do ye recognize this?”

She lifted one gloved hand, steading the paper so she could read it. “It is a letter…from the Duke of Exingham?”

His glower dropped to the paper, then he muttered something to himself and turned it over.

Ah. She recognized this.