talk like a fusty country parson.” She’d been so happy, and now he was spoiling things. Did he imagine she didn’t know what she was doing?
Lord Randolph looked angry. Dauntingly so. “You kissed me!” he hissed in her ear.
“Well, and so what if I did?”
“Are you in the habit of kissing random gentlemen?”
Now he was just offensive. “Do you call yourself random?”
“Are you?”
Verity longed to hit him. “Perhaps I shall be. What’s in a kiss?” The last sentence came out tremulous. Because there had been a great deal in it. As she’d meant there to be. But she wouldn’t be scolded when she hadn’t done anything wrong. Except with him. And he wasn’t talking about that. Blindly, she turned and moved away. People gave her curious glances. He’d exposed her to the stares of the crowd, another mark against him.
Just when Verity thought herself lost, she saw a friend not far away. She hurried toward her, nodding and smiling at compliments from those she passed. “Oh, Olivia,” she said when she reached her goal.
“What a night you’re having,” came the slightly mocking reply.
Her friend’s light tone was a relief. Nothing tragic had happened, Verity told herself. She hadn’t made a fool of herself, except in her own mind.
“What did Rochford say to you?” Olivia asked.
“He was just being polite. Praising the performance.” If he’d intended anything else, Verity meant to ignore it.
“Which made Lord Randolph furious?” her friend asked with an arch glance.
“He wasn’t… What makes you say so?”
“I think everyone with eyes saw that he was furious.” Olivia looked around as if gauging opinions. “It was rather obvious.”
“Oh.”
“So, are we to expect an engagement?”
“No!”
Olivia examined her as if she was an unusual specimen.
“He’s insufferable. If he thinks he can dictate to me…” Verity got hold of herself. “You can’t sing your way through life,” she added, which sounded cryptic even to her.
“You might want to speak more softly,” Olivia suggested. “And I’m not trying to marry you off.”
Verity bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to be so dramatic. And she certainly did not feel despair. That was ridiculous. She was at Carleton House, and she had scored a palpable hit. She had kissed… Perhaps she shouldn’t have. But she’d wanted to. So much that she’d forgotten to make a follow-up plan. Would Olivia know how to manage men one had kissed? Not accidentally, but…inevitably?
But Olivia had turned her mind to her own concerns. “I need something to catch Rochford’s attention,” she said. “I can’t sing like you. And anyway, that’s been done.” She acknowledged Verity with a smile. “I’ve heard he prides himself on his skill at cards. Perhaps I’ll challenge him to a game.”
“Could you?”
“Why not? I’ll just have to think of a wager he can’t refuse.” Her smile this time was impish.
“Where would you play?” Ladies were banned from clubs, as Verity knew all too well, and the card rooms at evening parties were always filled with the older generation.
“It would take some arranging. I’ll have to think.”
“You could get into trouble.” Olivia couldn’t play Rochford in public without rousing a minor scandal.
“I know what I’m doing.”
Verity discovered that the teachings of her youth had made a strong impression on her. She worried that Olivia was making a disastrous mistake.
“Verity!” Her mother bustled up. Mrs. Doran had undoubtedly poured out the tale of Rochford, and Verity was in for a scold. Briefly, she envied Olivia her easygoing mother. But of course she wouldn’t trade her family for any other.
There were times when a large, voluble family was a blessing, Randolph thought on the opposite side of the room, and others when it seemed he had a few too many brothers.
“What do you mean, now it’s Randolph’s turn?” asked Sebastian.
“To be the goat,” replied Robert.
“The…” Sebastian frowned at Randolph as if he was taking the expression literally.
“He’s lost his heart to his singing partner,” Robert added.
“I have not,” said Randolph.
“Have too,” said Robert, mimicking rhythms established twenty years ago. “And she’s making difficulties.”
“You don’t know anything about it.”
“I know she made you mad as fire a few minutes ago.”
He’d allowed his emotions to overcome him, Randolph admitted silently. And he regretted it. But seeing a man like Thomas Rochford flirting with Miss Sinclair—with Verity, such an unusual, pleasing name—had revolted him. Rochford treated women shabbily; shameful cases were known. Randolph would have warned any young lady about the fellow. That was all he’d been doing. He couldn’t quite remember what he’d said. The encounter was all muddled up