Elizabeth Harrington was being escorted to the dance floor and Eleanor would be spending the next hour and a half with Montagu . . . Lord Montagu. “I would like to dance. This is, after all, my first ball. I will have time to talk with Lord Montagu after this set.”

Harrington made a slight bow and held out his arm. “It is my pleasure.”

“And that is what several years in Paris will do for you. One cares less about convention,” Phinn teased. “Augusta, my love, shall we?”

Eleanor felt a little sorry for Montagu. . . . Drat it all. Lord Montagu. He did not have a partner for this set, and she had left him with her elder sister and brother-in-law. She supposed he would find something to say to them. She did like him much better after his story about the flowers. The flowers had been a pretty but unusual arrangement, two peonies interspersed with lilacs and surrounded by violets. It was almost like seeing them in a garden.

They took their places for the cotillion. “Do you like being back in England?”

“We will get used to it.” Lord Harrington seemed resigned to his fate. “My wife is adjusting a bit better than I am. On the other hand, I am used to being busy with diplomatic affairs. I must now find another occupation.”

“I would think they could find something for you to do at the Foreign Office here.”

“If I were a career diplomat they would. But I am destined to take over the marquisate.” Then he grinned. “It is not a bad thing, you know. That said, I hope it is not for many, many years. I fear I am more like my mother. She was quite depressed when they had to return from Paris.”

“I hear it is beautiful.” Eleanor would visit the city. Sooner rather than later, she hoped.

“It is. But we knew our time would end. There is an estate reserved for the heir. I will take over the responsibilities for that when the Season ends.”

“What an excellent idea.” Perhaps if all peers did that, there would not be so many heirs doing nothing.