Thornley had spoken his name as though he had an intimate friendship with the man, played lawn tennis and polo with him. He probably did. She’d never really given any thought to the fact that her sister’s husband spoke to royalty and no doubt did it with the same aplomb he exhibited as he faced the queue of guests waiting to be received. He seemed to know them all. After greeting someone, he’d turn to Gillie and say, “Duchess, I want to present to you Lord Whoever or Lady X or Lord and Lady Z or the Duke of Whatever.” Gillie would smile the smile that welcomed everyone into her tavern and made them feel right at home. “A pleasure. My sister, Miss Trewlove.”

Each guest curtsied or bowed to Gillie—she was after all a duchess. Fancy received a few curt nods of the head, a good many quick touches of her gloved fingers, a few actual kisses to her fingertips, followed by “My pleasure.” Then on they walked to visit with those they knew, to enjoy refreshments, or take a turn about the dance floor while a twenty-piece orchestra seated in the balcony played the most enticing music.

And so it went.

The elaborate dance card shaped like a fan with a tiny pencil attached to it via a string that she’d been given by a young maid when she’d first arrived dangled from her wrist, not a single dance claimed. No waltz, no quadrille, no polka. She told herself it was because the gents didn’t know how long she would be receiving, but she fully understood she was expected to stand and greet for two hours, until half ten, unless the guests coming down the stairs dwindled to nothing.

She wished she’d asked Gillie to invite Mr. Sommersby, for surely she would have, even though he wasn’t of the nobility, simply as a favor to Fancy. She wished she could look toward the stairs and see him descend them. Of course, then he wouldn’t be available to help with the teaching, although he could always arrive here late. People did. It was the reason the queue seemed never-ending.

When she’d walked into the reading parlor, Mr. Sommersby had immediately snagged her attention. The slow way he’d come to his feet, as though entranced. While Mr. Tittlefitz had looked at her like she were a delight to behold, Mr. Sommersby gazed at her as though she were a dollop of clotted cream he would like to slowly lick. It was an absurd thought to have had at the time because the heat in his eyes was melting in its intensity. She’d been surprised he hadn’t actually crossed the room to her, had stayed where he was, his fingers clutching the primer, his knuckles turning white. She wondered if he’d left dents in the book.