Lady Simpson’s voice sliced through her musings. She was staring at Calliope’s drink. "Stop lollygagging, girl, and get me some punch. I’m quite parched."

Calliope reminded herself for the hundredth time that she needed material for her deadline. She bit her tongue and nodded. Her pen would flay Lady Simpson later.

"Lady Simpson, it would be my pleasure to fetch you a lemonade," Terrence said.

"Nonsense. Miss Stafford will do so. That’s why I employ her."

Calliope cast Terrence a reassuring look, but he had assumed the dogged look of determination, which sometimes caused him trouble.

Calliope shoved her nearly full cup back to Terrence. "I appreciate the offer, Mr. Smith, but I do need the exercise. It’s good for my leg."

Lady Simpson’s eyes narrowed as she glared down at Calliope’s barely visible slipper. At that moment, Angelford turned in her direction, and he also cast a look downward. He must have been listening to their conversation. Heat spread from Calliope’s toes to her head and she excused herself before Lady Simpson could make disparaging comment or Angelford could add his own.

It was one thing to be criticized by Lady Simpson, quite another to have it come from Angelford. Using her walking cane, she headed for the refreshment area, deftly navigating the dancing couples and groups gathered on the perimeter.

The room was stifling. Calliope surreptitiously pulled her dress from her body, trying to create a breeze under the heavy, coarse material. She could feel moisture gathering along her spine and resisted the urge to waft air down the back of her dress.

But then, imagining the scandalized glances the action would garner, she was tempted to do it. Lady Simpson would surely have a fit, or at the very least a fainting spell. The series of thuds reverberating through the room, as the woman’s plumpness inelegantly bounced on the floor, would prove satisfying enough to outweigh the consequences.