Dorothea, their visit to the Richmond House orchangery in mind, was unsure of the propriety of seeing Hazelmere alone. But Cecily had gone out driving with Lord Fanshawe, and Lady Merion had still not emerged from her bedchamber. So she descended to the drawing-room but cautiously left the door open when she entered.

Hazelmere, on whom such little subtleties were not lost, smiled warmly as he took her hand, kissed it and, as was fast becoming his habit, did not release it.

‘Miss Darent, will you come for a drive in the Park with me?’

Ferdie had told her that Hazelmere, for the most chauvinistic of reasons, rarely took ladies driving in the Park. She was therefore perfectly conscious of the honour being done her. Deciding that she could not possibly forgo such an invitation, she replied with alacrity, ‘Why, yes, if you’ll give me time to find my pelisse.’

Releasing her hand, Hazelmere, long inured to feminine ideas of time, felt constrained to add, ‘Ten minutes, no more!’

Dorothea laughed over her shoulder as she disappeared from the room. She surprised him by returning in less than ten minutes and, as they left the house, revealed something of her knowledge of him by exclaiming, ‘Good heavens! You have your greys!’

Retrieving the reins and suitably rewarding the attendant urchin, Hazelmere climbed to the driving seat. As he leant down to help her up to sit beside him he answered, ‘As you say, Miss Darent, my greys. And what do you know of my greys?’

This shaft fell wide, however, as she could reply with perfect composure, ‘Ferdie told me you rarely drive your greys in the Park.’

Ferdie had told her rather more than this. Hazelmere’s greys were considered to be the fastest and best matched pair in the country. His lordship, if Ferdie was to be believed, had been offered vast sums for them but, as he had bred and reared them on the Henry estates, he would not part with them for any price.

‘Ah, Ferdie,’ mused Hazelmere, suddenly seeing that Ferdie’s line in inside intelligence could become a two-way street.

Conversation was necessarily suspended as he gave all his attention to negotiating the crowded streets, with the high-couraged and restless greys taking exception to numerous sights and sounds along the way. Dorothea could only admire his skill in successfully gaining the gates of the Park. Once inside, the curricle tooled along at a decent pace and Hazelmere turned his attention to her.

Much to his relief, she wore no hat, so that her face, surrounded by dark curls, was completely visible. As he watched she turned her head to smile up at him, brows lifting in mute question.

Carefully considering it in the dispassionate light of morning, Dorothea had reluctantly dismissed their interlude in the orangery as inconclusive. She had instigated it in the hope that his response would give her some clue to his feelings. But, while the result had been deliciously exciting, it had taught her little. That Hazelmere was well qualified to introduce her to forbidden delights had never been in doubt. While she wished with all her heart that he would say something, anything, to explain himself to her, she was depressingly certain that he would not choose the Park, with his greys in hand, as the place to do so. But presumably he had brought her here to tell her something.

‘Miss Darent, I find I must leave London for a few days. Estate business demands my attendance at Hazelmere.’

‘I see.’ Dorothea was not overly put out by this revelation. If she had thought about it she would have assumed that he must need to visit his estates fairly regularly. Then she remembered her coming-out ball. The sky seemed to darken. The face she turned to him was decidedly pensive as she wondered how to phrase her question.

Hazelmere, watching her thoughts pass across her face, solved her dilemma for her. ‘I’ll be returning on Tuesday evening, so I’ll see you next on Wednesday night.’

As he watched the sunshine return to her face he felt he should need no further proof of her feelings for him. Her actions and responses in the orangery had been so very revealing. He was tempted to ask her then and there to marry him, but his real dislike of trying to converse with a lady while holding a highly dangerous pair of horses made him repress the impulse. There would be plenty of time later, in more appropriate surroundings. God! he thought, shaken. Imagine proposing in the middle of the Park!

They continued around the Park, stopping to exchange greetings with a number of acquaintances. Hazelmere, not wanting to keep his horses standing, kept these interludes to a minimum. As they completed their circuit he headed the greys for the gates. ‘The weather is turning, Miss Darent, so I hope you’ll not mind if I return you to Cavendish Square forthwith?’

‘Not at all,’ she replied, ‘I know how honoured I’ve been to be driven behind your greys.’

Looking up, she found herself basking in that warm hazel gaze. ‘Quite right, my child,’ he murmured. ‘And do remember to behave yourself while I’m away.’

Incensed by the proprietorial tone, she turned to utter some withering remark, but, quizzically regarded by those strangely glinting eyes, remembered just how often he had extricated her from difficult situations. She was saved from having to reply by their emergence into the traffic, his attention once more claimed by his horses. By the time they reached Cavendish Square she had convinced herself of the wisdom of ignoring his last remark.

Pulling up outside Merion House, Hazelmere jumped from the curricle and lifted her down. He escorted her up the steps and, as Mellow opened the door, raised her hand to his lips, saying with a smile, ‘Au revoir, Miss Darent. Until Wednesday.’

Sunday and Monday saw the Darent sisters attend a number of smaller functions in the lead-up to their own coming-out ball. While Cecily flirted outrageously with her young suitors, most as innocent as herself, Dorothea wisely refrained from giving any of the callow youths worshipping at her feet the slightest encouragement. However, no amount of icy hauteur seemed to deter Edward Buchanan. Unfortunately even Lady Merion was of the opinion that time was the only cure for that particular pest.

So, to her deep irritation, Dorothea found herself too often for comfort in Mr Buchanan’s company. His conversational style drove her to distraction, while his continual and gradually more pressing attempts at gallantry awoke a quite different response. Her sanity was saved by the attentions of Lords Peterborough, Alvanley, Desborough and company, who, much to her delight, seemed almost as accomplished as Hazelmere in the subtle art of deflating pretensions.

Lady Merion sat staring bemusedly at the list in her hand. Was this really the best of all possible arrangements? She had been engaged in the arduous task of deciding the seating at her dinner table for Wednesday night since first thing on this dismal Tuesday morning. The house was a shambles, with caterers and florists coming in to set up their trestles and stands ready for the presentation of their wares the next night. The servants were everywhere-cleaning and polishing every bit of brass, silver and copper in the house, lovingly shining every lustre of every chandelier. Tomorrow night was the highlight of the Season as far as they were concerned and not one of Lady Merion’s glittering guests was going to find the least little thing wrong.

Glancing at the ormolu clock on her mantel, she saw that it was nearly time for luncheon. In a last effort to detect any flaw in her design, she returned her attention to her list. Finally satisfied, she laid it aside and went downstairs to the morning-room, where all their meals this week had been served while the dining-room and drawing-room were redecorated. With the aid of that expert in all things fashionable, Mr Ferdie Acheson-Smythe, she had decided that her main rooms would look well in a clear pale blue, touched with white and silver, so much more striking than the common white and gold. This colour scheme was repeated throughout the main areas of the house and continued into the ballroom. The flowers for the ballroom were to be blue and white hyacinths, white wood anemones and trailing white jasmine.

The pale blue, white and silver theme would provide the perfect backdrop for her granddaughters’ ball-dresses. The culmination of a prodigious effort, they were considered by Celestine among the best pieces her genius had ever created. Dorothea’s dress had been both difficult and immensely satisfying. Celestine herself had scoured the warehouses to find precisely the right weight of silk in a green that perfectly matched Dorothea’s eyes. The dress was shocking in its simplicity. Cut so low as to be ineligible for a younger débutante, the neckline was essentially parallel with the tiny puff sleeves, kept off the shoulder, leaving the shoulders quite bare. The bodice was shockingly snug. From the raised waistline the skirts smoothly flared over the hips, then fell heavily to the floor.

Cecily’s dress, though far less stunning, was still a perfection of simplicity. Of a clear and pristine aquamarine silk, the creation, with rounded neckline and raised waist, trimmed with seed-pearls, set off her youthful figure to best advantage.

In spite of the lowering skies, the sisters had ridden in the Park as usual that morning and had been occupied since with their mail. Joining their grandmother at the luncheon table, they continued to chatter in their artless way, telling her whom they had seen and who had sent greetings. Gazing at their happy faces, she felt a pang of dismay. Soon, too soon, these young things would be gone and her house would return to its previous existence. She was not looking forward to such a quiet future at all.