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Their mother sniffed. “Which is more than enough reason not to go, I would say.”

Victor shot his mother a glower, but it didn’t stop her from prattling on.

“But I heard from Lucretia, who heard it from Lady Easton’s maid, who heard it from?—”

“Stop!” Victor held up a hand. “You should know better than to listen to a chain of gossip, Mother, especially gossip handed down through servants.”

“Gossip, true or not, is hurtful,” Priscilla said. “And it’s all the more reason to show our support.”

Mother sniffed again. “All the more reason to stay home, Victor. I would advise you to do the same, Priscilla.”

“No,” his sister said adamantly. “Timothy and I will be happy to attend. Honoria is my friend, and Juliana is her sister-in-law. And for goodness’ sakes, Mother, Juliana’s brother is a duke! You should be more careful whom you disparage.”

“Hear, hear,” Victor mumbled.

And even though he didn’t wish to attend the event, Victor had donned his finest evening wear and was doing his damnedest to make the most of his night at Miss Merrick’s come-out ball. If nothing else, annoying his mother would be worth every dull moment.

Lydia tapped him with her fan again. Thank God the dance was almost over.

“Are you listening to me, Victor?”

Trying not to. “Of course. What were you saying?”

Lydia lowered her voice conspiratorially.

“During her presentation at court, Miss Merrick tripped on her gown and fell on her—well, her derrière in front of the whole assembly.” The smirk on Lydia’s face contrasted sharply with her feigned embarrassment over saying the word derrière.

“I’m surprised she’s showing her face this evening.

Of course, what can one expect from a commoner? ”

“You should be more forgiving of people’s misfortunes, Lydia. You may have need of compassion yourself one day.”

Once the dance ended and Victor deposited Lydia back with her parents, he joined Priscilla and her husband, Timothy, hoping for more amiable company.

Priscilla tapped him with her fan. What was it with women and those fans?! He wanted to rip them to shreds! “What?” he barked.

She gave him a firmer swat.

“Ow! That hurt.”

Timothy, chuckled. “She is vicious, Victor. You should know that.”

“I wouldn’t have to be if either of you would pay attention. Victor, go ask Miss Merrick to dance. The only eligible gentleman who has danced with her was Mr. Beckham. He’s such a flirt; I doubt Juliana even counted it as interest. The man even flirted with me last year at Burwood’s house party.”

Timothy growled next to her, and Priscilla reached back and flicked her fan at him, landing a direct hit on Timothy’s stomach.

“Serves you right.” Victor fought back the laugh.

“Please, Victor. It will make the girl feel better. You’re young and somewhat good-looking.”

“Somewhat?” Victor raised a brow. “Cilla, I think that’s as close to a compliment as I will ever receive from you.” He sighed. “Very well. But be sure to report it back to Mother. I do so enjoy annoying her.”

He strode toward Miss Merrick, whose eyes widened at his approach.

“Miss Merrick. May I have the honor of the next set?” He held out his hand. From the corner of his eye, he saw her brother, the duke, give a nod.

Pink rose to her cheeks. “I would be delighted, sir.” She slipped her gloved hand into his as he led her to the dance floor. “Thank you for rescuing me, Mr. Pratt,” she whispered. “You are my hero.”

Victor’s stomach clenched. Hero? Surely not. Was the girl reading more into his gesture than intended—a simple dance? He glanced down at the fan dangling from her wrist. Arguing with her might result in an assault with the feminine weapon.

Instead, he smiled as they took their places for the cotillion.

Thank God it wasn’t a waltz. Women put such store in that particular dance.

Victor bowed, and upon rising, his gaze snagged on Miss Merrick’s.

A shock jolted through him at her blue eyes, bringing back the memory he’d tried in vain to push down. He jerked his gaze away.

Adalyn’s cerulean-blue eyes sparkled in his mind, and the familiar dull ache pinged in his chest.

“Mr. Pratt? Is something wrong?” Miss Merrick’s voice brought him back.

“Forgive me, Miss Merrick.” Victor did his best to smile his apology. He forced his gaze back to hers. No, not cerulean. The slight tinge of violet made Miss Merrick’s eyes more of a cornflower-blue. Thank goodness.

A shade darker than Adalyn’s almost silver-blond, Victor studied Miss Merrick’s hair, appreciating how the candlelight brought out strands of red in her golden locks.

No, Miss Merrick was not Adalyn Lovelace. Victor sighed in relief. “You look lovely this evening, Miss Merrick.” Something flashed in Miss Merrick’s—decidedly—cornflower-blue eyes at Victor’s polite comment.

Disbelief?

Distrust?

“As opposed to?” she asked.

What? “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He truly didn’t.

“You said this evening . As opposed to when? Other than my brother’s house party last summer, I don’t remember enjoying your acquaintance.”

“You have a literal mind, Miss Merrick. I simply meant?—”

“Fear not, Mr. Pratt. Apparently, even my attempts at humor are falling flat today.” She winced. “A poor choice of words, that.”

Victor chuckled at her honesty.

She quirked a blond brow at him.

“Don’t misunderstand, Miss Merrick. I was not laughing at you, but with you. I admire a woman who doesn’t take herself too seriously.”

A genuine smile crossed her lips, and Victor found he liked her smile, too.

“I understand you are an artist, sir.”

“I dabble,” Victor said, his interest piquing at his favorite subject.

She smiled again. Yes, he definitely liked her smile. “You’re being modest, I fear. Honoria says you are quite knowledgeable. Now that he’s a duke, Drake has mentioned getting portraits painted for the family. Perhaps you could recommend an artist or apply for the task yourself?”

Oh, what a coup that would be to paint the portraits of a duke and his family. “I would be happy to offer my assistance in whatever way Burwood sees fit.”

“I will be sure to relay your offer to my brother, sir.”

When the dance ended, Victor was pleased he’d—for once—listened to his sister and asked Miss Merrick to dance, finding both a new friend and, even more hopefully, an opportunity to apply his skills.

Eager to get to know her better, Victor bowed and said, “Would you care for some refreshment, Miss Merrick? Some lemonade or ratafia to quench your thirst?”

Her eyes sparkled. Yes. Definitely cornflower-blue. “I would love that, Mr. Pratt, and although my brother finds ratafia too sweet, I adore it.”

Victor escorted her to the refreshment table, requesting one glass of ratafia and one of lemonade.

As a gentleman should, he took the ratafia from the footman and turned to hand it to Miss Merrick.

A sharp bump to his arm thrusted it forward, and the ratafia splashed from the glass, the red liquid landing in the most unfortunate area on Miss Merrick’s white gown.

Prepared to deliver a sharp setdown to whomever had bumped him, Victor spun on his heel only to discover no one behind him.

No. Wait. Several feet away, Lydia Whyte chatted with her mother.

Lady Whyte’s gaze darted in his direction, her eyes widening as she tapped Lydia on the arm—with her fan, of course—and nodded in Victor’s and Miss Merrick’s direction.

“Sir. Sir.” The footman’s call pulled him back to his faux pas.

Poor Miss Merrick stood motionless, staring at the red stain spreading like a watered-down blob of paint.

Victor snatched the serviette from the footman’s hand but paused before attempting to blot the liquid. “Um.” Poised in front of Miss Merrick’s abdomen, the serviette dangled from Victor’s fingers.

“Oh, dear,” Lydia said, appearing by his side, her voice flush with pity. “What unfortunate timing, Miss Merrick.” The glint in Lydia’s eyes gave her away. “May I assist?”

“No.” Miss Merrick plucked the serviette from Victor’s fingers, but due to the location of the stain, even she hesitated to dab at the liquid.

Gasps from around the room drew the Duchess of Burwood’s attention, and she and Mrs. Merrick raced to Miss Merrick’s side. “What happened?” Mrs. Merrick asked, while the duchess, Honoria, wrapped an arm around Miss Merrick’s shoulders.

“It’s my fault,” Victor admitted. “The glass of ratafia...someone bumped me.” Victor shot a glance toward Lydia, who adopted an innocent expression.

Tears welled in Miss Merrick’s eyes, dulling the cornflower color to a duskier steel-blue. “If you would excuse me, Mr. Pratt.”

As Mrs. Merrick and the duchess whisked Miss Merrick away, Lydia tapped him with that damnable fan. “Pity. Miss Merrick seems to have experienced a series of unfortunate events today.”

And although Victor’s heart went out to Miss Merrick, all he could think about was he’d probably lost his chance at gaining the ear of—and perhaps a commission for portraits from—a duke. Not to mention Miss Merrick’s friendship.

At that moment, he wasn’t sure which pained him more.