He believed she was somehow connected to the Marquess of Dardington, a fresh-faced, distant relation from the country who had come down to London for the Season. To find a husband, as was the custom with ladies of privilege. And apparently, she had been successful.

Not wanting to intrude on this private moment, Carter gingerly stepped off the gravel path onto the lawn and made his way soundlessly out of the garden.

The moment he reentered the ballroom, he began searching the crowd for his father. Instead, he located Viscount Benton, a handsome rake with a biting sense of humor. They had attended Eaton and later Oxford together, forging a friendship as boys that had deepened as they became men. They were alike in more ways than they were different, though Benton could be reckless in a way Carter admitted was almost frightening at times.

“Where the devil have you been hiding?” Viscount Benton asked.

“I was getting some air,” Carter answered, bracing his feet so as not to be shuffled from his position. It really was a ridiculous crush of people on the ballroom floor. Heaven help them all if someone yelled fire.

Viscount Benton stopped a passing footman and pulled two crystal goblets brimming with champagne off a gleaming silver tray. “Champagne?”

Carter grimaced as his friend offered him the goblet.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Benton intoned. “’Tis a drink for silly young girls, dotty old ladies, and swishing dandies, but the good whiskey is in the card room and it will take us at least twenty minutes to fight our way through this crowd. We shall expire from thirst before we reach the doorway.”

“I suppose I shall have to make do with it,” Carter grumbled, taking a long gulp. “At least it’s properly chilled.”

Benton nodded in agreement. “Lady Wessex might not have much sense when it comes to calculating the adequate numbers her ballroom can accommodate, but she certainly knows how to spend money on a ball.”