She smiled, clearly despite herself, but he counted that as a success. The day he couldn’t make a woman smile was the day he ought to just give up on life and move to the Outer Hebrides.

“Under normal circumstances,” he said, since the occasion seemed to call for polite conversation, “I would ask if you enjoyed the musicale, but somehow that seems cruel.”

She shifted slightly in her seat, which was interesting, since most young ladies were trained from a very young age to hold themselves with perfect stillness. Gareth found himself liking her the better for her restless energy; he, too, was the sort to find himself drumming his fingers against a tabletop when he didn’t realize it.

He watched her face, waiting for her to reply, but all she did was look vaguely uncomfortable. Finally, she leaned forward and whispered, “Mr. St. Clair?”

He leaned in as well, giving her a conspiratorial quirk of his brow. “Miss Bridgerton?”

“Would you mind terribly if we took a turn about the room?”

He waited just long enough to catch her motioning over her shoulder with the tiniest of nods. Lord Somershall was wiggling slightly in his chair, and his copious form was edged right up next to Hyacinth.

“Of course,” Gareth said gallantly, rising to his feet and offering her his arm. “I need to save Lord Somershall, after all,” he said, once they had moved several paces away.

Her eyes snapped to his face. “I beg your pardon?”

“If I were a betting man,” he said, “I’d lay the odds four-to-one in your favor.”

For about half a second she looked confused, and then her face slid into a satisfied smile. “You mean you’re not a betting man?” she asked.

He laughed. “I haven’t the blunt to be a betting man,” he said quite honestly.

“That doesn’t seem to stop most men,” she said pertly.

“Or most women,” he said, with a tilt of his head.

“Touché,” she murmured, glancing about the room. “We are a gambling people, aren’t we?”