Page 2 of Entwined By Error (Madcaps of Mayfair #1)

Juliana cast a wary glance over her shoulder. “They will, Myra. Please, I beg of you to consider our reputations.”

“I may have had a few stumbles last year, but I was fresh from the country.”

“Is that what you call overturned teacups and a chaperone on the verge of an apoplexy?”

“An exaggeration, to be sure.” Myra protested as she bit her bottom lip.

The memory surfaced unbidden: her gown catching in a carriage door, the seam splitting at the waist just as she’d rushed in for her grand entrance to a supper party.

The poor maid had nearly fainted. Myra had spent half the evening in the retiring room while frantic stitches were made.

At the time it had been mortifying; a year later, it was almost amusing. Almost.

Juliana frowned. “Myra, please.”

“Very well. I shall be a wallflower for the rest of the evening. If that is what you wish.”

“One can only hope. Yet, I fear you will find an excuse to win the viscount’s favor. If successful, you shall be unbearable.”

Myra laughed. “I do hope to catch his eye. He is handsome, although in need of a haircut.”

“And a shave. One would think his valet would find it shameful to send him with whiskers to Almack’s.”

“I think he is quite dashing with a beard. Did you not know they are all the rage?”

“A bit pokey, if you ask me.”

“Well, I suppose it would be difficult to hide a stolen kiss from such a man. Do you not think the hair shall leave a rash?”

“Myra Astley, I trust you will stay in the ballroom this evening.”

“To be sure, darling.” Myra patted her sister’s hand to hush further argument.

They had only a few moments to wait before the announcement of the waltz prompted Myra to accept Lord Southwood’s offered arm, allowing him to escort her to the queue.

With a sharp intake of breath, her eyes went wide as the gentleman placed his hand on her lower back, pulling her close against him.

“Do not fear, Miss Astley, I shall be a proper gentleman this night.”

“I do hope so, my lord, for everyone who is not taking part in the waltz will certainly find themselves scandalized should you prove distrustful.”

As the music started, Lord Southwood led her around the floor, his gloved hand warm and steady against hers. His smile was genuine, and before she could take a deep breath, she found herself swept into the elegant rotations of the waltz.

He moved with effortless precision, guiding her through each turn as though they had practiced together a hundred times.

A man as eligible and handsome as he had likely danced with half the ladies in London and never once mis-stepped, which meant she had to remain calm and composed so as not to make a ninny of herself.

“Your eyes are sparkling in the candlelight, Miss Astley,” he murmured as they glided past a row of matrons, each of them holding their lorgnettes in place so they could examine the couples to ensure there wasn’t any impropriety.

She allowed the smallest of smiles to break through as she tried to catch her breath. Yet, her words were airy and light as though she were in a dream. “Flattery, my lord, is hardly necessary.”

“Perhaps I am merely ensuring you will accept another dance from me.” His eyes caught hold of hers for the briefest moment—steady, unreadable, and entirely too confident.

Myra tilted her chin. “What makes you think I would welcome such a request?”

Lord Southwood leaned toward her, which was wholly unnecessary given they were already closer than she had ever been to a gentleman. “You have not fled my arms.”

“I would not give the matrons of Almack’s the satisfaction.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and spun her just enough for the hem of her gown to whisper across the polished floor. As he twirled her around the room once more, for one hopeful heartbeat, she wondered what it might feel like if the music never ended.

* * *

Morning came far too soon for Myra. She’d danced every set at Almack’s until her feet were so sore she could hardly walk to the carriage. Yet, she was satisfied.

“Good morning, Mama.” She kissed her mother on the cheek and then stepped to the head of the table to kiss her father’s cheek. “Morning, Papa.”

Filling her plate with a variety of breakfast foods, Myra laughed to herself as she remembered every delightful conversation, then exchanged a gleeful smile with Juliana as she sat down next to her.

Neither one of them had anything to complain about.

The evening had been spectacular, and their parents had not yet issued a reprimand for accepting a waltz without their permission.

“I thought to scold the both of you for defying my wishes and dancing the waltz, but you’ve done your mother and me proud.

A credit to the name of Astley.” Her father took a sip of tea before continuing to speak.

“A duke and a viscount. I shan’t complain the rest of the season, especially if one of you receives an offer of marriage. ”

Juliana wrinkled her nose. “I certainly do not wish for an offer from the duke. The waltz was wonderful, almost like flying across the floor, but he is so boring.”

“Boring or not, you would be a duchess,” their mother said as she slowly spread strawberry preserves on her toast.

Myra laughed at her sister. “Perhaps now that Shomberg led the way, other dukes will pay you heed.”

“As long as it is not one of the boring or pompous, arrogant sort, I shall do very well with a duke.”

“And what of you, Myra? The viscount was charming, was he not?” her mother asked.

Myra beamed at both her parents. “He most certainly was charming. Although, I doubt I will ever see him again. He did not ask for a second dance, and he disappeared soon after the waltz.”

“Do not give up so easily, child.” Her father took a bite of eggs and then a sip of tea. “I have it on good authority that Lord Southwood spent the rest of the evening at the tables. My sources say he asked a great many questions about you.”

“He did?” She instantly sat up, straightening her shoulders. “What sort of questions?”

“I believe the most pertinent one was your situation. The viscount wanted to know if you were courting any other gentlemen.”

Myra put a hand over her heart and sighed as she relaxed against the chair. “Then he might consider me an option?”

Her father laughed as he accepted the letters from the butler. He skimmed through them and then held one aloft. “I daresay, Myra, the viscount is more than considering you.”

“What is it?” She pushed her plate away, unable to eat a morsel for fear that filling her belly would change the outcome of her father’s next words.

“We received an invitation to a supper party, at the viscount’s request. The hosts are the Earl and Countess of Hastings.”

“The viscount’s parents?” Her mother left her seat at the end of the table, rushed down to where her husband sat, and took the invitation out of his hand, reading it silently. When she finished, she handed it back to her husband. “Our daughter has done well, do you not agree, Mr. Astley?”

“Quite well.” Her father handed the invitation to Myra. “This season is turning out to be most agreeable.”

Myra took hold of the invitation, afraid at first to look at the signature, worried that her father had misread the host’s name and instead she would discover it was an invitation from one of their neighbors, but it did indeed prove to be from the desk of the Countess of Hastings.

Her stomach fluttered as she remembered how light she had felt in the arms of the viscount. His smile had put her at ease. The warmth of his voice had soothed all her concerns, and for the briefest of moments, she had been equal to a countess in his arms.