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Joy took another sip of tea, letting her eyes wander over the assembled guests.

Several ladies in attendance were entirely engrossed in their own chatter—comparing notes on the latest ball, or lamenting the gloom that sometimes clung to London’s weather.

A pair of elderly aunts clucked disapprovingly in one corner of the room, casting glances every so often at Joy’s party, perhaps in search of new fodder for gossip.

The conversation was a whirl of inconsequence.

She might go mad if she could not spend some time in the country soon, even if it was just a jaunt to Richmond for the day.

Mayhap Freddy would go with her. He was always game for a gallop.

She would send her groom over to ask him.

Frankly, she thought that another ridiculous rule: that she could not call upon Freddy or send him a note.

It was not as if he was a suitor. He was as close to a brother as Westwood, Rotham, Stuart, or Carew, for goodness’ sake.

Maeve returned to Joy’s side, having apparently retreated from the Duchess’s domain.

She took a seat beside Joy with a feigned look of calm.

“The Duchess is rather high in the instep,” she whispered.

“I fear my Irish blood does not impress her. Nor does she seem enthralled with my conversation on the picturesque beauties of Killarney. I can hardly imagine why.”

Joy smothered a grin. “That is truly a mystery. She must be blind indeed.”

Maeve shrugged. “She is not the first to have her nose in the air. We shall see if the Duke himself has any independent thought in that handsome head of his.” Then, noticing the remains of Lady Abernathy’s persistent chatter, Maeve added in an undertone, “Could she boast more of dear Alistair’s trifling accomplishments?

I believe we have heard about his mastery of archery, lawn tennis, and whist in the span of half an hour. ”

Joy nearly choked on her tea again. “This time, it is the violin. Next we will be subjected to him screeching out a concerto.”

Maeve hid her amusement behind a gracious smile. “Lord have mercy on our ears.”

Lady Abernathy, catching wind of their whispers, beamed in their direction. “Ah, Miss Whitford, Lady Maeve, what do you think of my new tea service?” She gestured to the service of porcelain cups and saucers before them. “Imported from China, you know.”

The two friends dutifully inspected their cups, with Joy commenting on the delicate floral pattern as best she could. Trapped in an endless parade of teacups. But she would survive. The thought of a future ride in the countryside kept her spirits from sinking entirely.

At last, when the Dowager deemed they had stayed a polite length of time, and the party made their way out, Joy felt relief wash over her.

Once they were settled back in the carriage, Joy let out a quiet groan. “If I were forced to listen to another word about Alistair’s many graces, I might have used that new tea service as a weapon.”

The Dowager pursed her lips in disapproval but could not hide a hint of amusement.

“Lady Abernathy is a forceful character, I grant you, but she means well…however, it would not do to offend any of the matrons. If you think Lady Abernathy insufferable, you will not withstand the real dragons. You must be more attentive.”

Faith, sitting alongside them, patted Joy’s hand. “You endured admirably, my dear. I thought you might bolt when she mentioned your blushing.”

Joy pulled a face. “The thought did occur to me.” And as soon as she was back in the house, she sent a groom off to beg Freddy to go riding at his earliest convenience, then went to find the kittens for solace.

Freddy trudged along the London streets with a mind as muddled as an untrained pup.

He could have hailed a hackney, but the brisk walk, he told himself, would jar his wits into a more useful shape—though he rather suspected his wits were beyond saving at present.

Carriages rumbled past, fruit sellers bellowed at passers-by, someone’s small lapdog yapped indignantly when nearly trodden upon—but Freddy registered little more than a hazy swirl of noise and colour.

The predicament in which he found himself cast overshadowed everything else.

By the time he reached White’s, a slight perspiration dotted his brow.

Inside, the foyer bustled with gentlemen in various stages of leisure—some lingering about, discussing the latest wagers, others drifting upstairs to the reading rooms. Freddy scanned the faces for any sign of his friends Westwood, Rotham, or Montford but no such luck.

Only casual acquaintances, men he knew more for their tall tales than for any genuine intimacy, drifted by to offer half-smiles and nods.

He slipped into one of the smaller rooms off the main hall, where a handful of armchairs and a crackling fire provided a semblance of calm.

He slumped into a chair by the fire, wondering how to explain his plight without sounding completely hapless.

He had just run a hand through his windswept hair, when the door opened to admit Westwood—looking perfectly pressed in a tailored coat, his expression warm with quiet amusement. Freddy nearly leapt from the chair in relief.

“Good Lord, Cunningham, you appear as though you’ve run the length of Bond Street,” Westwood greeted him, doffing his hat before setting it on a nearby table. “I did not expect to find you brooding by the fire in the middle of the day.”

Freddy managed a faint grin. “I might prefer a run if it would solve my problems. But alas, I fear I must burden you with them first.” Westwood’s eyebrows rose in gentle mockery. “Burden away. I assure you, I have endured worse.”

Freddy was just about to launch into the tale when a second figure strolled in—Rotham, the picture of dark, handsome elegance. He nodded to them both. “Why, Cunningham, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Care to enlighten us?”

Freddy gave a dismal shrug. “I wish I could say all was well. In truth, my parents have made it clear that my bachelor days are done. They threaten to revoke my allowance if I am not engaged by the end of the Season.” He expelled a long breath. “In short, I must find a bride or starve.”

Westwood gave a soft whistle. “That is quite the ultimatum. And here I thought your father was all good cheer and easy indulgence.”

“He was,” Freddy said, gesturing helplessly. “But he has evidently run out of patience with my…ah…lack of direction.”

“Lack of direction,” repeated Rotham, lips curving. “Is that what enjoying one’s freedom is called these days?”

Freddy let out a humourless chuckle. “He may have used terms like reckless, aimless, and heedless, but I did not care to retain the full list. Suffice it to say, I have six months to secure a match—or I am cut off. Even then, I am to run an estate for funds.”

Westwood tugged thoughtfully at his cravat. “The good news is, six months is a fair span if you set your mind to it.”

“Ha,” Freddy said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “If I set my mind to it. My mind, Westwood, is not the deepest lagoon.”

“If not your mind,” Rotham put in with a sly grin, “then your charm may suffice. You have no shortage of that. Start combing through the throng of débutantes. Dance with them. Make conversation about the weather, ribbons, whatever it is their fancy to discuss. Then narrow down the list to who does not bore you silly.”

“And if that fails,” Westwood added, “you can always let Montford parade you about. He is sure to babble on about how marriage to your sister has improved him in every conceivable manner. Ladies do love a successful romance.”

Freddy, who had been half-smiling in spite of himself, gave a rueful shrug.

“If you consider nauseating happiness success a good thing. Though I fear that being forced into marital bliss is hardly the same as leaping into it of one’s own accord.

” Freddy’s shoulders sagged. “I see the logic of it, truly. I simply dislike being forced. Marriage should be about…I do not know, something more pleasant than ‘choose or lose,’ if you take my meaning.”

“That is how many in our set find themselves betrothed,” Westwood pointed out, settling into a chair opposite Freddy. “Parental edicts are quite effective, if unromantic. Could be worse.”

Rotham snorted, perhaps recalling his own parental edict. “One must count blessings where one can.” He sobered, then regarded Freddy with a thoughtful tilt of his head. “But, truly, do you have any lady in mind? Have you yet surveyed the new crop?”

Freddy hesitated. His mind flitted to the beautiful Lady Maeve and then for some reason to Joy—his best friend, though why she would appear in his thoughts he did not care to explore.

He suspected that path was riddled with more hazards than he could undertake just now.

“Well,” he said at last, “there may be a face or two, but no one I have had a chance to properly know. I suppose I need to go into Polite Society more. I went to the ball last night solely for Joy. I will have to attend every devilish music recital and soirée and—heaven help me—make afternoon calls.”

Westwood patted his arm consolingly. “Doing the pretty is a small price to pay for salvation from penury, my friend.”

A footman sidled into the room just then, delivering a tray of refreshments. Freddy seized a glass of brandy and downed the whole. Rotham and Westwood exchanged an amused glance.

“What about your father’s other requirement—about living off the land?” Rotham asked, once the servant had discreetly departed. “He wants you to take charge of an estate?”

Freddy grimaced. “Yes, indeed. My father believes a wife and an estate will bring me to heel in short order.”