“I don’t think so. One of the usual childhood ailments, but Elinor is afraid all the children will catch it.”

“Well, Joth will have to do duty as family for both sides,” Petra said, smiling at her brother. “You don’t mind, do you, Joth?”

“Not in the least,” he said with a gallant bow. “Not for one evening, anyway.”

“Let’s go into dinner.” Guy moved to the door. “Just the three of us, since we lack other family.”

“Well, I for one am heartily glad of it,” Petra said. “Although, I would really like to meet your sister, Guy.”

“So you shall. I hope at the wedding, but either way we’ll visit Scotland on our honeymoon. I think you and Elinor will get on well.”

“We haven’t discussed a honeymoon.” Petra took her seat at the dining table. “I thought we might go to Florence. I’d love to spend more than a flying visit at the Uffizi.”

“Then we’ll do both,” Guy said. “Tell me what you think of the white burgundy, Jonathan.”

* * *

At ten o’clock Petra glanced behind her at the tall case clock on the gallery at the head of the staircase. At eleven she and Guy would be able to leave their post where they had been receiving guests since nine o’clock. The orchestra was playing a lively polka in the ballroom behind them and she wished for the tenth time that she could be done with this irksome courteous ritual and join the dancers.

Guy had not been joking when he said all the prominent members of society would be invited to the betrothal party. For the last hour the stream of guests ascending the staircase had been unbroken, members of Parliament and government ministers, including the prime minister, mingled with representatives of every major aristocratic family, including the royal family.

Congratulations were on every lip, but Petra detected more than a casual curiosity from many of the guests, sharply inquisitive eyes appraising her, the surreptitious whispers as the guests moved on into the ballroom, and not a few backward glances. She felt as if society at large was wondering what on earth had drawn the noble Lord Baron Ashton to the unremarkable Petra Rutherford. Her birth was more than respectable, but hardly spectacular. Sir Percy was significantly wealthy, but the Ashton fortune was known to be vast, so any dowry prospects would hardly be an incentive. She was not particularly beautiful, the most she could claim was the unusual color of her hair and a somewhat striking wardrobe.

The scrutiny and the whispers made her hold her head higher, tilt her chin with a touch of hauteur, and keep a neutral smile on her lips as she trotted out the stock phrases of welcome, her hazel eyes meeting every artificial smile with a pinprick of defiance.