“Which rumor—that the earl killed his wife or that he is looking for a new one?”

“The latter. I will know soon enough if he is—men cannot keep a thing like that secret for very long.”

“Mmm, no, I imagine not. If their intentions are not clear in the speculative gazes they impart on every marriageable female who can still draw breath, it’s in the way they check the bride-to-be’s teeth and make sure her movement is sound.”

Charlotte tried to stifle a giggle. “Mama says I am not to listen to a thing you say, that you are incorrigible and a bad influence.”

Gillian laughed with her cousin as they entered the ballroom arm-in-arm. “It’s a good thing she doesn’t know I’ve learned it all from you, my dear Char. Now, after we view this rogue of the first water, tell me who has caught your fancy. As I told Aunt Honoria, I’m determined you will end your Season with a stunning match, but I cannot help you become deliriously happy if you do not tell me who your intended victim is.”

“Oh, that’s simple,” Charlotte replied with a beatific expression of innocence that was spoiled only by a perfectly wicked smile. “Everyone knows rakes make the best husbands. I shall simply pick out the worst of the bunch—one riddled with vices, bad habits, and a reputation that will make Mama swoon and Papa rail—then I shall reform him.”

“That seems like a terrible amount of work to go to just to find a suitable husband.”

“Not really.” Charlotte whipped open her fan and adopted a coy look. “After all, you know what they say.”

“No, what do they say?”

“Necessity is the mother of intention.”

Gillian stopped. “Invention, Charlotte.”

“What?”

“Necessity is the mother of invention.”

Charlotte stared at her for a moment, then rapped her cousin on the wrist with her fan. “Don’t be ridiculous, where would I come up with an invention? Intentions I have aplenty, and that’s quite enough for me, thank you. Now let’s go find this delicious rake of an earl. If he’s as bad as Mama says, he might just suit.”

Gillian laughed at her cousin as the pair resumed their course across the brightly lit ballroom. Three men standing nearby turned at the sound of their merriment and considered the pretty picture in contrast the pair made.

“What have we here?” The shortest man, stylishly dressed in salmon satin breeches and an embroidered ivory waistcoat, lifted his quizzing glass and gazed at the two women. “Ah, it’s the Collins chit. Who’s the Long Meg with her?”

The tallest member of the group lifted a dark eyebrow at the question. “I haven’t the slightest idea, Tolly. You’re the expert on members of society. You tell us who she is.”

Sir Hugh Tolliver toyed with his quizzing glass. “You’d know, too, if you came to town more often, Weston. ’Struth, you haven’t even come for Parliament for the past five years! It ain’t healthy to bury yourself in the country like that, my friend. A man of your consequence should be in town, taking your rightful place in society. You owe it to your title and your family to do so.”