Eleanor gave herself a shake. She was attracted to him, but not in love with him. Yet. The ton was littered with love matches that had gone wrong because the couple did not want the same things. By insisting a potential husband meet certain qualifications, her sisters and their friends had gone about it the right way, and so would she.

Footmen brought around champagne and lemonade. She took a glass of the latter and sipped. It was not too sweet and not too tart, with just the right amount of water. Something else had been added to it as well. She took another taste. Mint. “This is good.”

Alice took a small drink. “Mint has been added. We should try that.”

Eleanor could not imagine telling their French cook to do anything. “I would like to see you make that suggestion to Jacques.”

Madeline cringed. “I do not want to be anywhere near when you do. I would also suggest you warn Grace.”

“You have a point.” Alice pulled a face. “Perhaps I shall wait until I have my own house to run.”

She glanced at her twin. “That is probably a better idea.”

The back of Eleanor’s neck started to tingle. Surreptitiously, she glanced around. Montagu had arrived. Her heart began to beat faster and she fought to maintain an outwardly calm countenance. Unfortunately, a large part of her that did not wish to listen to reason wanted to turn to him and smile. Until she was sure how she felt and what she wanted to do about him, she must not be distracted by her physical reaction to the man.

Ignoring the warmth that had spread from her neck to her shoulders, she studied the room or, rather, rooms. Pocket doors had been pulled back to give the illusion of one large drawing room. A stage had been placed at the far end and rows of chairs set up. “Did we ever discover what kind of musical evening this was?”

Madeline shook her head. “I only know that we will not be performing.”

“An opera singer has been engaged for the evening.” Montagu’s warm breath caressed Eleanor’s bare neck.

Determined to pay no attention to the tiny bumps Eleanor was sure had risen on the back of her neck—she detested horripilation; next time she would wear a fichu to cover her neck—she turned toward him. “My lord, good evening.”

Bowing, he took the hand she held out and actually kissed it! Not the air above her fingers, but the back of her glove. Thank the deities that it covered her arm almost to the small, puffed sleeves of her gown. She really would resemble a plucked goose when this was over.

Straightening, he caught her gaze with his own. “Good evening, my lady.”