Ferdie Acheson-Smythe was the most constant of Dorothea’s cavaliers, rapidly attaining the position of cisisbeo-in-chief to the dark-haired beauty. His initial approach to Lady Merion’s granddaughters had been prompted by a chance meeting with Hazelmere. His magnificent cousin had suggested that Ferdie might assist in the squashing of any rumours concerning himself and the lovely Dorothea. It was the sort of thing Ferdie, an adept at social intrigue, enjoyed. And, as the favour was asked by Hazelmere, Ferdie would have thrown himself into the breach had Dorothea been the most unprepossessing antidote. Finding Miss Darent to be far more attractive than Hazelmere had indicated, Ferdie took to his task with alacrity. The result was that within a week a friendship had been established, close to sibling in quality but without the attendant strains, much to the surprise of both participants.

It was at a musical evening at Lady Bressington’s that Mr Edward Buchanan made his appearance. A solid country gentleman of thirty-odd years, he was mildly fair and slightly rotund, his pink face graced by soulful brown eyes at odds with the rest of his robust figure. For reasons Dorothea failed to divine, he made straight for her side, ousting a darkly handsome Romeo by the simple expedient of suggesting that Miss Darent had had enough mindless maunderings for one night.

Miss Darent was slightly stunned. The Romeo, shattered, took himself off, muttering dark and dire threats against unspecified unromantic elders. Mr Buchanan took his place.

‘My dear Miss Darent. I hope you’ll excuse my approaching you like this. I realise we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Edward Buchanan. My father was a friend of Sir Hugo Clere and I looked in on him on my way to town. He mentioned your name and asked me to convey his regards.’

Dorothea sat silent through this speech, delivered in a ponderous baritone. The excuse was hardly substantial; Sir Hugo was a distant neighbour and she could readily imagine the purely formal greetings he would have sent. However, Miss Julia Bressington, a vivacious brunette and one of Cecily’s closest confidantes, was about to start singing, accompanied by Cecily herself on the pianoforte, so it was not the time to make even the mildest scene. She inclined her head and pointedly gave her attention to the players.

Mr Buchanan had the sense to remain silent during the performance, but immediately the applause died he monopolised the conversation, determinedly chatting to Dorothea on pastoral issues. This left the majority of her court, most of whom had no knowledge of crops or livestock, stranded. Dorothea herself was utterly bemused by his unstinting eloquence on the subject. But as soon as the last of her admirers had drifted away, defeated by his dogged discourse, he stopped. ‘Ah-ha! Thought that would do it!’ Looking thoroughly pleased with himself, he explained, ‘I wanted to get rid of them. I knew they wouldn’t understand anything of moment. Sir Hugo gave me the fullest description of you, my dear Miss Darent, but he came far from doing justice to your beauty. You clearly outshine all these other young misses, although I must say I find the favoured style of dress for young ladies these days a little too, shall we say, revealing for one of my years to countenance.’ His eyes had dropped to the swell of her breasts exposed above the scooped neckline of her stylishly simple silk gown. ‘I dare say you feel that in the circumstances, placed as you are with your grandmother, who, I understand, is a highly fashionable lady, you too must play the part. Still, we can overlook such matters, I’m sure. You would feel far different in country circles, where I’m sure you are much more at home.’

Dorothea was rendered speechless by this monologue, which had contrived to progress from over-full compliment to insult in the space of two minutes. Aghast, unable to get a word in edgeways, she was forced to listen to Mr Buchanan’s opinions of fashionable practices, which culminated in a description of his widowed mother’s belief that, in her exposing her only son to the wicked wiles of London society, he would return to her, corrupted in body and mind. Mr Buchanan assured Miss Darent with jocular familiarity that such an outcome was highly unlikely. Dorothea, incensed and close to losing her temper, bit back an acid rejoinder that if London society could teach Mr Buchanan his manners it would have achieved a laudable goal. Instead she said in frigid tones, ‘Mr Buchanan, I must thank you for your conversation. If you’ll excuse me, I must speak with some friends.’ Which, she reflected, was as close to a verbal cut as made no difference. But even as she rose, and with a cool nod moved to Lady Merion’s side, she saw that, far from his taking the hint, the dismissal had not pricked his ego in the least.

By the night of the first of Almack’s subscription balls Lady Merion knew she had a major success on her hands. They were fully booked for at least a sennight and the invitations were still rolling in.

She had started preparations for the girls’ coming-out ball, for which the ballroom at Merion House would be opened for the first time in years. Squads of cleaning women had already been in, and redecoration would soon begin. The invitations, gold-embossed, had arrived that afternoon, and tomorrow they could start sending them out. She had fixed the date for four weeks hence, at the beginning of April, just before the peak of the Season. By then all her acquaintances would have returned to Town and she could be assured of a full house.

As she watched her granddaughters descend the stairs dressed for their first ball, both apparently unconscious of the positively stunning picture they made, she admonished herself as an old fool. Of course, her ball would be the biggest crush of the Season, but its success would owe far more to these two lovely young things than to anything she herself could do.

Dorothea, a vision in pale sea-green silk, lightly touched with silver filigree work, moved to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Grandmama, you look wonderful!’

Hermione unconsciously smoothed her purple satin. ‘Well, my dears, you are both an enormous credit to me. I’m sure you’ll create a considerable stir tonight!’

Cecily, shimmering in pale blue spangled gauze over a shift of cornflower-blue satin, impulsively hugged her. ‘Yes, but do let’s go!’

Laughing, Lady Merion called for their cloaks and then led the way to the carriage.

As soon as they entered the plain and unassuming ballroom that was Almack’s it was apparent that the Darent sisters’ arrival had been eagerly awaited. Within minutes their cards were full, with the exception of the two waltzes. Lady Merion had impressed on them that they were forbidden to waltz until invited by one of the patronesses, who would introduce them to a suitable partner.

The Season was now in full swing and the rooms were crowded with mothers and their marriageable daughters and gentlemen eager to view the new Season’s débutantes. Dorothea was thoroughly enjoying herself, being partnered first by Ferdie, with whom she was now on first-name terms, and then by a host of politely attentive gentlemen. Her grandmother, watching over her charges from the gilt-backed chairs arranged around the walls to accommodate the chaperons, noted that Dorothea had attracted far more than her fair share of attention but none of the more undesirable blades had yet sought her company. Talking to Lady Maria Sefton, she watched her elder granddaughter go down the ballroom in the movement of the dance, and then lost sight of her as the music ended and the dancers dispersed.

At the end of the ballroom, on the arm of the charming young man who had been her partner, Dorothea turned to make her way back to her grandmother’s side, knowing that the next dance was the first of the forbidden waltzes. A well-remembered voice halted her. ‘Miss Darent.’

Turning to face the Marquis of Hazelmere, Dorothea swept him the curtsy she had been taught was due to his rank and, rising, found that he had taken her hand and was raising it to his lips. The hazel eyes dared her to make a scene, so she accepted the salute in the same unconcerned way she had previously. Then her eyes met his fully, and held.

There followed a curious hiatus in which time seemed suspended. Then Hazelmere, becoming aware of her awkward young cavalier, nodded dismissal to this gentleman. ‘I’ll return Miss Darent to Lady Merion.’ Faced with a lion, the mouse retreated.

To Dorothea he continued, ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet, Miss Darent.’ He placed her hand on his arm and deftly steered her through the crowd.

She had seen him among the throng earlier in the evening. He was dressed, as always, with restrained elegance in the dark blue coat and black knee-breeches currently de rigueur for formal occasions, with a large diamond pin winking from the folds of his perfectly tied cravat. She had thought him attractive in his buckskin breeches and shooting jacket, and more so in his morning clothes. In full evening dress he was simply magnificent. She had little difficulty in understanding why he made so many cautious mothers distinctly nervous.

Strolling calmly by his side, her hand resting lightly on his arm, she tried to ignore the light-headedness that had nothing to do with the crowd or the dancing and everything to do with the expression in those hazel eyes. Oh, how very dangerous he was!

Their perambulation came to an end by the side of a dark-haired matron. This lady, turning towards them, exclaimed in a cold and bored voice, ‘There you are, my lord!’

Hazelmere looked down at Dorothea. ‘Allow me to present you, Miss Darent, to Mrs Drummond-Burrell.’

Unexpectedly faced with the most censorious of Almack’s patronesses, Dorothea hastily curtsied.