She smiled, and Andrew’s bream hitched. Damn but she was lovely. The entire thread of their conversation disintegrated from his mind as he continued to look at her. Finally his inner voice coughed to life. Cease gawking at her and speak, you nodcock. Before Lord What’s-His-Name comes back, no doubt bearing a huge bouquet and spouting sonnets.

He cleared his throat. “And how is your son, Lady Catherine?”

A combination of pride and sadness flitted across her face. “Spencer’s overall health is fine, thank you, but his foot and leg do pain him.”

“He did not travel with you to London?”

“No.” Her gaze flicked over the assembled guests, and her expression chilled. “He dislikes traveling, and he especially dislikes London, a sentiment I equally share. Nor is he fond of parties. If not for my father’s birthday celebration, I would not have ventured to Town. I plan to depart for Little Longstone directly after breakfast tomorrow.”

Disappointment coursed through him. He’d hoped she might remain in London at least a few days, to afford him the opportunity to spend time with her. Invite her to the opera. Show her the progress on the museum. Ride in Hyde Park and stroll through Vauxhall. Damn it all, how was he to launch his campaign to court the woman if she insisted on hiding out in the country? Clearly a visit to Little Longstone was in order, yet as she hadn’t issued him an invitation, he’d have to think up some plausible excuse to venture there. But in the meanwhile, he needed to stop wasting precious time and make the most of his present opportunity. The strains of a waltz floated on the air, and his entire body quickened at the prospect of dancing with her, of holding her in his arms for the first time.

Just as he opened his mouth to ask her to dance, she leaned closer, and whispered, “Oh, dear. Look at that. He’s going about it all wrong.”