He gave her a mischievous half smile. “It’s quite agreeable here at the edge of the ballroom. So many people to watch.”

She turned quickly back to her lemonade. It was a sly sort of compliment, but a compliment, indeed. No one would have understood it but they two, and for that reason it was all the more wonderful.

“I shall not be sitting here long, I’m afraid,” she said.

His eyes seemed to sparkle. “Such a statement can only demand explanation.”

“Now that you have danced with me,” she told him, “others will feel the need to follow suit.”

He chuckled at that. “Really, Miss Smythe-Smith, do you find we men so lacking in originality?”

She shrugged, still keeping her gaze fixed ahead. “As I told you, Sir Richard, I am very fond of observation. I cannot say why men do as they do, but I can certainly tell you what they do.”

“Follow one another like sheep?”

She bit back a smile.

“I suppose there is some truth in that,” he acknowledged. “I shall have to congratulate myself on having noticed you all on my own.”

She looked over at him at that.

“I am a man of discerning tastes.”

She tried not to snort. Now he was really laying it on too thick. But she was glad of it. It was easier to remain indifferent when his compliments felt too deliberate.

“I have no reason to doubt your observations,” he continued, leaning back in his chair as he watched the crowds milling about. “But as I am a man, and therefore one of your unknowing subjects—”

“Oh, please.”

“No, no, we must call a spade a spade.” He tilted his head toward hers. “All in the name of science, Miss Smythe-Smith.”

She rolled her eyes.

“As I was saying,” he continued, in a voice that brazenly dared her to interrupt, “I believe I can shed some light upon your observations.”

“I do have a hypothesis of my own.”

“Tsk tsk. You said you could not say why men act as they do.”

“Not conclusively, but I would be appallingly lacking in curiosity if I did not ponder the matter.”

“Very well. You tell me. Why are men such sheep?”

“Well, now you’ve boxed me into a corner. How am I meant to answer that without giving offense?”

“You can’t, really,” he admitted, “except that I will promise that my feelings will not be hurt.”

Iris let out a breath, hardly able to believe she was having such an irregular conversation. “You, Sir Richard, are not a fool.”

He blinked. Then said, “As promised, my feelings are not hurt.”

“And as such,” she continued with a smile—because really, who could have not smiled at that?—“when you take an action, other men will not immediately think you foolish. I imagine there are even a few young gentlemen out there who look up to you.”

“You are too kind,” he drawled.