“And just when I was having benevolent thoughts,” Iris muttered. She liked the ice blue silk of her gown. She rather thought it brought out her eyes.

“You should be wearing darker colors. For contrast.”

“Contrast?” Iris echoed.

“Well, you need some color.”

One of these days, she was going to kill her sister. She really was.

“Next time we go shopping,” Daisy continued, “let me pick out your gowns.”

Iris stared at her for a moment, then started to walk away. “I’m getting some lemonade.”

“Fetch some for me, would you?” Daisy called out.

“No.” Iris didn’t think Daisy heard her, but she didn’t much care. She’d figure out eventually that no refreshment was forthcoming.

Like Daisy, Iris had been watching the door all evening. Unlike Daisy, she’d been trying to do it surreptitiously. When Sir Richard had returned her to her home earlier in the day, she had mentioned that she would be at the Mottram ball that evening. It was an annual affair, and always well attended. Iris knew that if Sir Richard did not have an invitation, he would be able to procure one with ease. He had not said that he would be in attendance, but he had thanked her for the information. Surely that meant something?

Iris skirted around the perimeter of the ballroom, doing what she did best at events such as these—watching everyone else. She liked standing at the periphery of the dance floor. She was an avid observer of her friends. And her acquaintances. And the people she didn’t know, and the people she didn’t like. It was entertaining, and truly, most of the time she enjoyed it more than she did dancing. It was just that tonight . . .

Tonight there was someone she actually wanted to dance with.

Where was he? Granted, Iris had arrived unfashionably on time. Her mother was a stickler for punctuality, no matter how often she was assured that the time listed on a ball invitation was merely a guideline.

But the ballroom was now bustling, and anyone concerned about arriving too early would have no cause to worry. In another hour, it would be—

“Miss Smythe-Smith.”

She whirled around. Sir Richard stood before her, strikingly handsome in his evening clothes.

“I didn’t see you come in,” she said, and then proceeded into mental self-flagellation. Stupid stupid. Now he’d know she’d been—

“Were you watching for me?” he asked, his lips curving into a knowing smile.

“Of course not,” she stammered. Because she’d never been a good liar.

He bowed over her hand and kissed it. “I would be flattered if indeed you were.”

“I wasn’t watching for you exactly,” she said, trying not to let her embarrassment show. “But I did look about from time to time. To see if you were here.”

“Then I am flattered by your ‘looking about.’”