Page 1 of Souvenir of Love

One

Elizabeth Harcrest stood on the threshold of the ballroom and scanned Lady Anne Dinsmore’s elegant assembly. The ambiance of the room was intoxicating: civet and musk mingled with the scents of pomander and wine. Music rose like birdsong above the forest of voices. Candlelight shimmered across satins and silks and danced across the gems that bedecked the hands, the hair, and the bosoms of the ladies and the gentlemen, including the one she most hoped would be present.

Anne Dinsmore glided forward, slim hands outstretched, and blocked the view.

“Lord Moreham, Lady Moreham, Lady Elizabeth, I am delighted you could attend our little soiree.”

“You know we would not have missed it for the world.” Elizabeth’s brother Rafe, the Earl of Moreham, leaned forward and kissed Anne’s cheek. His wife Alix inclined her head politely. “You look lovely, Anne.”

Elizabeth thought the gown—a cream-colored satin, trimmed with scarlet ribbons—made the pale, ash-blonde Anne look as if she were struggling to recover from a lingering illness.

“Indeed, Anne, you should wear those colors more often,” she said, mustering a smile for the woman, who, when they were children, would pinch her and then complain to Rafe that “Elizabeth is a crybaby.”

“And you have grown into quite the elegant young lady.” Anne waved a jeweled forefinger. “I hope you’ve been behaving yourself. A first season is so critical to one’s future.”

“I shall look to your experience,” Elizabeth replied, resisting the urge to add,And you should know, having been out for so long.

Anne turned her attention back to Rafe. “Lord and Lady Davenport were announced a few moments ago. I believe Cole mentioned an interest in the hazard tables, and, of course, Lady Moreham, your mother, Madame la Comtesse, is here. Such an astonishing sense of style! Each time I see her, I am overcome with regret I was never able to attend court at Versailles. But now, with the horrid doings of those wicked men in Paris…”

“Ah, yes, intolerable how revolution disrupts one’s travel plans,” interrupted Cole Ashbourne, slapping Rafe on the back. “Though in truth, Anne, I had no idea your interests exceeded the bounds of Mayfair.”

“You see, Lord Moreham,” Anne said with measured politeness, “I told you Lord Davenport had arrived.”

“Moreham, a pleasure to see you,” Cole said, the single dimple indenting his cheek deepening as he turned his smile to Alix. “LadyMoreham, an evengreaterpleasure. My wife has been awaiting your appearance with great impatience.”

“Tell me, Davenport, is there anything Phoebe does with patience?” asked Rafe.

“Walk with me, Moreham, and I’ll think on it.”

Rafe turned back to Anne. “If you’ll excuse us…?”

“Anne doesn’t mind.” Cole grinned at her. “This crowd will be a crush by midnight. Only imagine the reputations she will have flayed by then.”

“You know, Cole,” Anne said, lifting her chin, “if I didn’t cherish the memory of our families’ friendship, I might be wounded by your unkindness.”

“Confess, Anne, family friendship has little to do with the matter.” He winked at her. “It’s my title you cherish.”

Her smile stretched tight. “There are occasions, my lord, when it is the most appealing aspect of your nature.”

Cole chuckled as he offered his arm to Elizabeth. “Come, little one, it’s dangerous for small fish like you to linger in the depths amongst the sharks.”

“You are terrible, you know,”Elizabeth whispered as she slid her hand around Cole’s claret-colored silk-clad arm, and their group moved out of earshot.

“She is right,” Alix agreed. “One of these days you will push Anne Dinsmore too far. And her wrath, I suspect, will be sharper than that of Madame la Guillotine.”

Rafe sighed. “You said very much the same thing about Anne this past December, when we married; yet she has never said an unkind word, though she fully expected I would offer for her hand…”

“And you would have, if Alix hadn’t rescued you,” Cole interrupted. “I vow, the very thought of Phoebe and Anne sharing a table every Christmas Eve gives me the shudders as if I had caught the ague.”

Rafe glanced down at the mahogany tresses of his wife. “One might debate who rescued whom.”

Alix pinched him through his green velvet sleeve.

“Though, suffice it to say, I’m quite happy with the outcome.” He smiled. “Nevertheless, Anne Dinsmore is perfectly respectable. She has behaved with the graciousness I would expect from a duke’s daughter.”

“Amadduke’s daughter,” Cole murmured.

“Just because His Lordship prefers to pursue his study of Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps in seclusion?—”