"She sent word earlier," Raphael said, his usual humor dimmed. "Suddenly took ill. Purging, apparently. Mother sent the physician to attend her."
"Oh no," Penelope's stomach sank with worry. "Is she—"
"She'll be fine," Raphael assured her. "You know Callie. Probably ate something that disagreed with her. She'll be terrorizing us all again by morning."
"Might I have this dance, Lady Penelope?"
She turned to find a gentleman she didn't recognize, older, perhaps forty, with thinning hair and an eager smile.
"Lord Templeton," Anthony said smoothly, materializing at Penelope's elbow. "What a pleasure. I'm afraid my sister's dance card is quite full this evening."
"Oh. Of course." Lord Templeton bowed and retreated.
"My dance card is empty," Penelope pointed out.
"And it is staying that way until we find someone suitable," Anthony replied, steering her away from the main crowd.
Penelope pulled her arm free. "Why do you not like Lord Ashmore?"
The question seemed to catch Anthony off guard. He glanced around, ensuring no one was within earshot, before answering. "That's a conversation for another time."
"You keep saying that. When is 'another time' going to arrive?"
"When we get home," Anthony said firmly. "For now, it is time to secure you a proper suitor. Someone worthy of our family name."
"How romantic," Penelope said dryly.
But before Anthony could respond, they were descended upon by what appeared to be half the eligible gentlemen in London.
"Lady Penelope, might I—"
"If you would do me the honor—"
"I was hoping to request—"
Their voices blurred together into an incomprehensible wall of sound. Penelope found herself smiling awkwardly, nodding at faces she couldn't quite focus on, trying desperately to remember which gentleman was Lord Fletcher and which was Sir Blakely.
"Gentlemen," Adrian appeared like a guardian angel, placing himself firmly between Penelope and the encroaching crowd. "My sister requires a moment. If you'll excuse us."
He whisked her away before anyone could protest, guiding her toward the relative safety of a windowed alcove.
"Thank you," Penelope breathed, feeling like she could finally inhale properly. "That was—"
"Well, hello Penelope."
Every muscle in Penelope's body tensed at the sound of that voice.
Cordelia Merriweather stood before them in a gown of pale blue silk that matched her eyes perfectly. Her red hair was arranged in an elaborate style that must have taken hours, and a string of sapphires glittered at her throat.
"Mr. Carrington," Cordelia added, dropping into a graceful curtsy and looking up at Adrian through her lashes.
"Lady Cordelia," Adrian said with an oblivious politeness that made Penelope want to shake him. "What a lovely gown. That color suits you remarkably well."
Cordelia's smile widened. "How kind of you to notice. I had it made specially for tonight." Her gaze shifted to Penelope, and something sharp entered her expression. "Penelope, darling, how brave of you to wear white again. Most girls would worry about being upstaged, but you've never been one to concern yourself with such things, have you?"
The insult was delivered with such sweetness that anyone overhearing might have thought it a compliment.
"You are so insufferable," Penelope said, not bothering to mask her irritation.
"Pen—" Adrian started, looking confused.
But Penelope had already turned and walked away, her skirts swishing with each agitated step. She could hear Cordelia's tinkling laugh behind her, could imagine the innocent expression she was no doubt giving Adrian.
She wasn't watching where she was going, too focused on putting distance between herself and Cordelia's poisonous presence.
Which was why she crashed directly into someone.
"Oh!" Penelope stumbled, her hands flying up to steady herself against a solid chest. "I am terribly sorry, I wasn't—"
She looked up and felt her apology die on her lips.
The man she had collided with was approximately her age, perhaps a year or two older. He had brown hair that fell in soft waves to his collar, warm hazel eyes, and the kind of pleasant, open features that suggested good humor. Full lips were currently pressed into a thin line of distress. He wasn't classically handsome in the sharp-featured way that seemed fashionable, but there was something appealing about his face, honest, kind, approachable.
He also looked like he was on the verge of fleeing the ballroom entirely.
"Surely they will try anything," he muttered, apparently to himself.
"I beg your pardon?" Penelope took a step back. "Are you supposed to be somebody important?"
The moment the words left her mouth, she realized how rude they sounded. But instead of taking offense, the man's expression shifted to something like relief.
"No," he said, then grimaced. "Well, yes. But I wish I weren't. Forgive me, I'm just—" He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "I'm nervous for tonight."
"Hmm," Penelope said, studying him with interest. There was something refreshingly genuine about his anxiety. Most gentlemen she had encountered this season were either supremely confident or pretending to be.
An older gentleman in military dress was making his way through the crowd toward them, his expression stern. Without thinking, Penelope turned back to the anxious man and laughed, loud and bright and completely fake.
He blinked at her in confusion.
"Play along," she whispered urgently, then louder: "What a delightful story! You must tell me more."
The military gentleman paused, reassessed, and changed direction.
When he was safely gone, Penelope sighed. "Thank you."
"My pleasure." He said simply. She held out her hand. "Lady Penelope Carrington."
"Frederick Ellington," he said, accepting her hand and bowing over it. "Earl of Greymoor, though I wish that weren't the case."
"An earl," Penelope said, reassessing slightly. "Why are you nervous, Lord Ellington? Surely you're accustomed to these sorts of events."
Frederick's expression turned pained. "Would you like the honest answer or the polite one?"
"Always honest," Penelope said, thinking of gray eyes and sardonic smiles. "I'm rather tired of politeness."
They moved toward the refreshment table as they talked, Frederick gesturing for two glasses of champagne. He handed one to Penelope before answering.