Barbara Metzger Read Free Page A

tonight?”
    Graydon had to reach up to loosen a neckcloth that was suddenly too tight. “Tonight? No, no, there’s no reason to rush the blast—ah, blessed thing. I only meant you shouldn’t go putting on airs like every other belle who makes a splash.”
    Daphne looked away and bit her lip. Graydon misinterpreted her disappointment. “I’m not saying you will, Daff, just that it’ll be hard to resist all the lures cast your way. But then that’s what this Season is for, isn’t it? To give you time to meet other chaps, to know your own mind.”
    To know her own mind? She’d known what she wanted since she was six! She wasn’t about to change it now. But that was just like Gray to be so fair and considerate. Of course, the thought of her falling top over tail for another man was too silly to mention, so she just danced on happily.
    Graydon wondered at her silence and the knowing smile that softly curled at the edges of her mouth. Deuce take it, when had little Daphne turned into such a charmer? And why, for heaven’s sake? He looked around to see if anyone else noticed that beguiling grin. “Everyone who’s anyone is here tonight,” he said, caught between pride and chagrin.
    “Everyone who matters to me was here for dinner.”
    Since they’d dined en famille, Graydon’s chest swelled and he relaxed. She was still his sweet little Daffy. This first dance together should put his mark on her for anyone unaware of the understanding between them. A few words here and there should refresh a few other memories, so he really didn’t have to worry about the hordes of admirers waiting next to Lady Whilton hoping to sign Daphne’s dance card. He couldn’t have another set with her until the end of the evening, he knew, but would have to do his duty by every wallflower in the room, under his aunt’s gimlet stare. He kissed Daphne’s hand when he left, purposely lingering over her fingers so everyone noticed, and said, “Enjoy yourself, brat, but don’t forget about me.”
    Forget about him? Forget to breathe, more like. Smiling, Daphne fingered the gold locket he’d given her. She was the luckiest girl alive! Graydon was the kindest, most handsome man in the world—and he was jealous!
    Daphne was the success Graydon had predicted. Word of their almost-betrothal was circulated all over, but that simply made her more appealing to the bucks who liked a challenge, or the Tulips who liked to worship at some goddess’s shrine without paying the ultimate sacrifice, marriage. She was a safe flirtation, and she was delighted to play this new game.
    There were Venetian breakfasts and balloon ascensions, rides to Richmond and ridottos. Sightseeing and being seen in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour. Musicales, masquerades, and military parades. Morning calls, afternoon at-homes, three balls a night. Sometimes Graydon escorted the ladies; more often Lord Hollister did when the entertainments were too tame for his son. Daphne understood: Gray was letting her spread her wings. She was soaring.
    Then came the night at the opera when she looked across the vast concert hall to see him, her almost-fiancé, Graydon Howell, in a private box with a lady no lady would recognize. Thud. Her plummeting spirits fell so hard, she was surprised the sound didn’t drown out the tenor.
    “Ignore it,” Cousin Harriet hissed in her ear. “It’s the way of the world.”
    “Not my world,” Daphne protested.
    “Of course not, you ninny. It’s a man’s world, and they’re all alike.” Cousin Harriet had never married, and had never met the man who could make her regret that fact. She pointed out Lord Oglethorpe with his hands all over Lady Armbruster, while Lady Oglethorpe was being ogled by Sir Gervase Ashton. Lord Armbruster, across the aisle, had his arm across some demirep’s shoulder, and on and on.
    But not Gray. Those old court-cards, that reckless here-and-thereian, but not her idol, her Lochinvar, her best friend.
    Her