At first the evening went very well indeed. Peter introduced Miss Gabrielle Jerningham to his friends, and according to their several interests they either gaped at her bosom or queried as to whether she was wearing Carême. Thank God for Madame. Every man in the room seemed to have eyes only for Gabby.

Gabby behaved very well and seemed rather subdued by the glittering extravagances of a London ball. She danced fairly well, Peter found. That was an important consideration. He himself thought that dancing ought to be a gentleperson’s primary form of exercise, and he rarely sat out even a rousing country dance. He left more arcane forms of exercise to his brother, who, now that he couldn’t ride a horse, spent hours stripped to the skin and performing grunting contortions.

Peter’s favorite dance was the polonaise, and to his delight, Gabby danced it commendably. It was a slow, stately dance that appeared simple to the onlooker. But it depended on split-second timing and languid motion. There was nothing more distasteful than jerky movements or someone rushing the beat.

All in all, Peter was more than satisfied with his new betrothed. Acquaintances clustered about him and complimented him on his future wife’s exquisite taste in clothing, her ladylike demeanor, her graceful bearing on the ballroom floor. Countess Maria Sefton had commiserated with him over his father’s illness and had announced that she would send vouchers to Almack’s. He didn’t even have to ask. The lascivious Prince of Wales had elbowed Peter in the chest and whispered that his bride was a true dasher, with the voice of a siren. Peter didn’t hear anything sirenlike about Gabby’s voice, but he didn’t argue. That was high praise from Prinny.

Thus when Gabby returned from a speedy version of Jenny Pluck Pears and wanly pleaded exhaustion, Peter allowed that they might retire for a moment onto the balcony.

“What you need is fresh air,” Peter announced, ignoring Gabby’s pleas that they retire for the evening. It was only two in the morning, and no one was even thinking of departing. But obviously it took time to develop the fortitude required of an English gentlewoman. Under no circumstances were ladies allowed to flag or look anything less than perfectly attired and coiffed. He had kept a sharp eye on Gabby’s hair and had already sent her away twice to have it pinned up.

“Lady Sylvia seems to be quite exhausted,” Gabby said in desperation. Her chaperone had been dozing in a chair at the side of the ballroom for the last half hour.

Peter shrugged. “She always naps. She’ll wake up for supper, and no one will think the less of you for it.”

That hadn’t been Gabby’s point. If those chairs weren’t so spindly and uncomfortable, she could go to sleep herself.

“We shall visit the balcony and inspect the gardens.”