THIS WAS NOT a good idea, Edward thought. It was absolutely none of his business whom Lady Angeline Dudley danced with—in the presence of both her guardian and her chaperon. And no possible harm could come to her. The setting could scarcely be more public, and she was still very much the focus of everyone’s attention.

He did not want to be seen anywhere near her again this evening. He did not want anyone to get the wrong idea. And it would be wrong. His mother and the committee of female relatives were going to have to shift their attention to the alternate list. Better yet, they were going to have to stand back and let him choose for himself.

Eunice had just admitted that she felt a little bereft at the fact that they had released each other from that informal agreement they had made four years ago. She had been acting nobly when she released him, then, doing what she felt she ought to do. She thought he should marry someone closer to him in rank, and she thought that someone should be Lady Angeline Dudley. But even Eunice, with all her intelligent good sense, could be wrongheaded at times. She was suited to his rank. She was a lady by birth and upbringing. More important, she was suited to him. They were very similar in many ways.

The more he thought about it, the more determined he was that it was Eunice he would marry after all. He would bring her around to his way of thinking. His family might be a little disappointed, but they would not make any great fuss. They loved him. They wanted his happiness.

Inside the supper room Windrow was seating Lady Angeline at a small table. It was not well done of him. The ball was in her honor, and she surely ought to be seated at the long table. On the other hand, of course, the whole purpose of her come-out was that she find a suitably eligible husband, and everyone knew that Windrow was of an ancient, respected family and as rich as Croesus to boot.

Perhaps her relatives were all holding their collective breath and hoping no one else would join the two of them at their table.

Eunice drew him inexorably onward. They wove their way past tables beginning to fill up with chattering guests.

“Oh, here, Edward,” she said at last. “There are two empty places at this table. May we join you?”

The last words were addressed to Windrow and Lady Angeline.

It seemed to Edward that Windrow was not at all pleased—until his eyes moved past Eunice and alit upon Edward himself, that was. Then he looked deeply amused. He jumped to his feet to draw back a chair for Eunice.

“Heyward,” he said, “present me to this lovely lady, if you would be so good.”

“This is Lord Windrow, Eunice,” Edward said as she seated herself. “Miss Goddard, Windrow, Lady Sanford’s niece.”

“And now,” Lady Angeline said, smiling brightly, “I will not suffer the embarrassment of having to cover the fact that I do not remember your name, Miss Goddard. I was introduced to dozens of people this evening, almost all of them strangers, and their names went in one ear and out the other, I am afraid. Not that I am deliberately careless of other people’s identities. Miss Pratt, the last of my governesses—I had six in all—taught me that one of the essential attributes of a true lady is that she never forget a face or the name that goes with it. Even the faces and names of servants. She stressed that last point, perhaps because she was in the nature of being a servant herself and knew how often people looked at her without really seeing her at all. Her words were very wise, I am sure. But I am equally certain she never attended a ball of this size and found herself expected to remember everyone and greet them all by name the next time she saw them. So do forgive me for not remembering your name at first. I will know it now for all time.”

The woman could certainly talk, Edward thought as he seated himself. Her silence at the Rose and Crown Inn obviously had not been typical of her at all.

“Your governess’s advice was sound, Lady Angeline,” Eunice said. “But of course it is impossible to know everyone in the ton after a single brief introduction, and no one would realistically expect it of you. The important thing is always to do one’s best. It is all that is required of one in this life.”

Windrow had glanced from Eunice’s face to Edward’s and back again while she spoke. The gleam of amusement in his eyes had deepened if that were possible.

“But not in the next, Miss Goddard?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?” She looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“In the next life,” he said, “we may relax and do somewhat less than our best?”

“In the next life, Lord Windrow,” she said, “if there is a next life, which I seriously doubt, we are presumably rewarded for having done our best here.”

“Or not,” he said. “For not having done it.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said again.

“Or we are not rewarded,” he said, “because we have not done our best. We are sent to the other place.”

“Hell?” she said. “I have very serious doubts about its existence.”

“Nevertheless,” he said, “doubts are not certainties, are they? I believe, Lady Angeline, you must continue earnestly memorizing names during the coming days so that you may avoid the risk of ending up in hell when you die.”

Lady Angeline laughed.

“How utterly absurd,” she said. “But I thank you, Miss Goddard, and I shall remember your wise words—the important thing is always to do one’s best. My best was never good enough for Miss Pratt—or any of my other governesses—with the result that I often quite deliberately did considerably less than my best. I suppose I was not an ideal pupil.”

“And they were not ideal governesses,” Eunice said. “The primary goal of any governess ought to be to encourage and inspire her pupil, not to discourage and dishearten her. Expecting and even demanding perfection is quite dangerously wrong. None of us is capable of perfection.”

“Hence the need for heaven,” Windrow said. “To reward those who at least do their best.”

“Exactly,” Eunice said, looking steadily into his mocking eyes with their drooped eyelids and refusing to be cowed by them. “Though it is all perhaps wishful thinking on our part.”

“If you could but prove that to me, Miss Goddard,” he said, “I should never again feel the need to try my best.”

Plates laden with appetizing foods of all descriptions, some savory, some sweet, were brought to the table at that point. And another servant came to pour their tea.

Edward looked around quickly and met his sister Alma’s eyes. She nodded approvingly at him.

Then he looked at Lady Angeline. She was gazing back at him, her eyes bright with laughter.

“And what about you, Lord Heyward?” she asked as she took a lobster patty from the plate he offered. “Is it important to you always to do your best?”

She had called him stuffy. Did she want further evidence that she was correct?

“It would depend,” he said, “upon what I was doing. If it were something I knew I ought to do, then of course I would do it to the best of my ability. If it were not, then even my best might not be good enough. If, for example, someone at a social gathering asked me to sing, I might agree and try my very best. But I would succeed only in murdering the ears of a roomful of unsuspecting guests. It would be far better in that case, then, not to try my best. Not to try at all, in fact.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Are you that bad?”

“Utterly tone-deaf,” he said.

She laughed.

“But Lord Heyward was devoted to his studies at Cambridge, where my father is a don,” Eunice said. “And he has been devoted to his position as Earl of Heyward during the past year. Duty always comes first with him. He will never fritter away his time and resources in rakish pursuits, which many gentlemen in his position deem almost obligatory, I believe.”

Oh, Lord, Edward thought, she was trying to court Lady Angeline for him and scold Windrow all at the same time. He picked up the plate of cakes and handed it around.

“Rakish pursuits?” Windrow said with a shudder. “Are there such gentlemen? Point out one to me, Miss Goddard, and I shall challenge him to pistols at dawn.”

“Rakish pursuits,” she said, looking steadily at him, “and the frivolous pursuit of violence. When duty and courtesy and kindness could be embraced instead.”

“Miss Goddard,” Lady Angeline said, “you and I think very much alike. Men can be so silly, can they not? Perhaps they impress each other when their first reaction to anything even remotely suggestive of an insult is to issue a challenge. But they do not impress us.”

Edward met Windrow’s eyes across the table, and the man lofted one eyebrow.

Edward was feeling like a very dull dog indeed, since he obviously did not fit into the category of those who indulged in rakish pursuits—or of those who pursued frivolous violence as an answer to insult.

Eunice and Lady Angeline Dudley, he thought, were as different from each other as day and night. Lady Angeline was gorgeously dressed and coiffed, her face vividly alive with smiles and sparkling dark eyes. She was a chatterbox. She was bold and indiscreet. She often dressed in garish colors. She was frivolous. Eunice was neatly dressed and coiffed, her manner restrained and refined, her conversation intelligent. She was serious-minded. Yet strangely the two had found common ground upon which to converse.

“Miss Goddard,” Windrow was saying, “I am crushed by your disapproval of my offer to rid your world of at least one rakish gentleman. And stunned by your superior insight into the essential difference between the sexes. You simply must grant me an opportunity to redeem myself in your eyes. You must dance the next set with me.”