“Please leave his stockings alone,” Faircliffe murmured. “Which direction is the gin?”

Chloe hooked her arm through his and led him toward the refreshments.

Tommy patted her wiry white wig and peered in all directions before hobbling toward the York family.

“I suppose you young things plan to dance until dawn,” she quavered at Mr. and Mrs. York in lieu of a greeting.

They exchanged startled glances. Likely because, according to the journal Graham kept on the Yorks, the MP and his wife were rarely seen within arm’s reach of one another. There was no recorded instance of them dancing together.

“Young love,” Tommy said with a shake of her head, then turned to Philippa. “Why, aren’t you just the sweetest thing with your pinchable cheeks and all this lace. Is it your come-out tonight?”

“It is not her come-out,” Mrs. York snapped. “That is Philippa, whom you have seen every Thursday afternoon for several months in a row—”

“Not lately,” Mr. York said. “Didn’t you forbid her from having friends some weeks ago?”

“I?” Mrs. York turned to him in affront. “Is it not your ambition that requires Philippa’s future husband to be a member of Parliament or eligible for the House of Lords?”

“My political ambition is not half so grasping as your social ambition,” Mr. York shot back. “If I have to hear one more word about how mortifying you find our lack of title, and how all of your hopes are pinned upon a bookish wallflower who after five long seasons cannot even…”

Good God. Tommy sent Philippa a horrified glance. Was this twaddle what Philippa heard all day when she was at home?

Philippa lifted one shoulder almost imperceptibly, as if to say she had mastered the art of blocking out their voices long ago.

“You look beautiful,” Tommy whispered. “Delectable, some might say.”

“You’re the only one who might say,” Philippa whispered back, letting the tips of her fingers brush Tommy’s. “And shh.”

If Tommy were Baron Vanderbean right now instead of Great-Aunt Wynchester, she could pull Philippa into her arms the moment the music began and—

“…at least Captain Northrup is English,” Mrs. York finished, as though settling an age-old argument. “What good is Baron Vanderbean? He’s ineligible for Parliament, and just barely considered bon ton. It’s a fine thing he isn’t present tonight, or I daresay Philippa would make calf’s eyes at him and spoil her chances with Northrup.”

“Just because he’s to be a viscount doesn’t mean Northrup will take his seat in the House of Lords,” Mr. York said. “We should limit the pool to active statesmen. The Speaker of the House is a future viscount, and he’s in want of a wife.”