Maggie’s fingers clenched so hard on the ivory handle of her fan, she feared she might crack it in half. “How droll you are, Fred. Indeed, Mrs. Beresford, I can dance. I’m merely conserving my energy for the waltz.” She inclined her head. “Good evening.”

Turning sharply, she made her way back through the clusters of elegantly clad ladies and gentlemen that lined the ballroom. “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I beg your pardon.”

The music swelled as the dance came to a close, the orchestra playing so loudly that she could hardly think.

“Margaret.” Fred caught hold of her arm—the same arm he’d clenched so brutally during his last visit to Green Street.

She couldn’t conceal a wince.

He dropped his hand. “Where do you think you’re going? You can’t charge off alone.” His gaze flicked down the length of her in disapproval. “Not dressed like that.”

“I’m not alone. I came here with Miss Trumble, and with her brother and aunt.”

“None of whom are anywhere to be found.”

“Here I am!” Jane hurried, breathless, from the dance floor. “Is everything all right?”

Maggie had never been more relieved to see her friend. “Fred is objecting to my lack of a chaperone.”

Jane laughed. “Nonsense. She has three chaperones altogether. My brother has just gone to fetch us some punch, and then we’ll be rejoining my aunt.”

“Exactly so,” Maggie said. “I don’t need you hovering over me all night, Fred. You’ll only cause a scene.”

Fred glowered. “Very well. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Margaret, make no mistake.” He strode away to rejoin his friend.

“What was that about?” Jane asked.

“Possessiveness,” Maggie said. “And worse. He’s befriended a distant relation of Lord. St. Clare’s.”

“Oh?” Jane shot Maggie a look. “What mischief can he be up to?”

“I don’t know. But Fred never forgets a slight. I wouldn’t put it past him to be brewing some manner of trouble for the viscount.”

Jane sighed. “Men and their petty grievances. How tedious they can be.” She linked her arm through Maggie’s. “Come. Let’s find George.”

The evening continued in a flurry of music and dancing. More people arrived, and the ballroom was soon packed full to bursting. It was hot under the flickering lights of the crystal chandeliers, the air heavy with the cloying fragrance of perfume, pomade, and perspiration. One could scarcely draw breath. Indeed, midway through the evening—in a sure sign that Lady Parkhurst’s ball was a success—a woman dancing the scotch reel fell into a dead faint from the lack of circulation.

Maggie felt a trifle light-headed herself. She hated to think how much worse it would be if she was dancing.

But she didn’t dance.