As they strode down the length of the Darlington gardens, and Miss Crabtree spoke of the weather this Season, he nodded politely and glanced around at the other couples availing themselves of the garden shadows. As they neared the house, and the golden lights of dozens upon dozens of beeswax candles spilled out from the ballroom windows and illuminated the lawn, he caught a glimpse of a woman with hair the color of chestnut and turned to look.
She was very near to being locked in a man’s embrace, but Grif could just see her angelic face— alabaster skin perfectly smooth, her eyes luminous, and her lips dark and full. She was smiling up at the man who held her in such rapture, coyly batting her long lashes at him, laughing a little at whatever he said to her. As the man slipped his arm around her waist, Grif noted she was delightfully feminine in the curve of her body.
Beside him, Miss Crabtree made a clucking sound. “Oh dear, I rather think Lord Whittington would be quite displeased,” she said when Grif looked curiously at her.
“Beg yer pardon?”
Miss Crabtree didn’t answer, but frowned disapprovingly in the direction of the angel. “It’s rather unseemly for a debutante to be cavorting about,” she whispered. “Especially with a man of such reputation, and especially Miss Lucy Addison, as she is rumored to be the Favorite of the Season.”
The favorite what? Grif wondered, and thought that while it might appear unseemly to a lamb like Miss Crabtree, it was actually an awful lot of jolly good fun to go sneaking about lush gardens. Perhaps that was what was wrong with the English in general, he mused. They really had far too many rules that barred any merriment.
Grif smiled down at the mousy woman on his arm and wondered if she’d ever know the pleasure of cavorting about moonlit gardens. “What a pity, that,” he said low, “for I know one lass I should very much like to cavort with in the gardens.”
Miss Crabtree gasped and blinked. Then smiled beneath a furious blush.
Grif winked, but said nothing more.
He managed to extract himself from Miss Crabtree easily enough, although he didn’t care for the pitiful look she gave him—it made him feel a wee bit like he was leaving a puppy on the wrong side of a door.
She was quickly swallowed up by a number of couples and ladies who were ready for their supper.
He made his way back to the ballroom, smiling at any lady whose eye he could catch… which seemed to be all of them. He might have stopped to flirt with as many as he could, for that was a sport he excelled at, but he was rather determined to make Miss Lucy Addison’s acquaintance. Aye, if there was one thing on God’s earth that Griffin appreciated, it was a bonny woman, and Miss Lucy Addison was definitely bonny.
He found his friend, Mr. Fynster-Allen, in the place he had left him—standing a little behind one of the ridiculously overgrown potted palms, apparently enjoying the sight of the ladies as they waltzed by on the dance floor.
It had been Grif’s good fortune to make Fynster’s acquaintance at a gentlemen’s club shortly after his arrival in London. What had begun as a friendly game of cards had turned into a friendship. Fynster was a rotund, practically bald man who stood a full head shorter than Grif. He was likewise a bachelor, and possessed the most pleasant countenance Grif had ever encountered in another man. Unfortunately, Fynster was painfully shy when it came to women, and did not avail himself of their company nearly as often as Grif did, if ever.
Fortunately, however, Fynster seemed to know everyone among the ton, had even heard of Lady Battenkirk, and even knew a batch of Amelias.
Furthermore, it appeared that everyone among the ton knew Fynster; he was invited to all the important events, and it was indeed his influence that had garnered Grif’s invitation to this ball. Grif liked Fynster well enough to feel abominably guilty for the number of lies he had told him, beginning with the reason for his search for an Amelia.
Fynster was watching a woman in a blue gown when Grif clapped him on the shoulder, startling him. “Ho there, Ardencaple!” he exclaimed, jumping a little. “By God, you startled me!”
“Dreadfully sorry, lad,” Grif said, grinning.
Fynster glanced around Grif, saw he was alone. “She was not your Amelia, I take it?”
“She was no’,” Grif said, affecting a sorrowful look.
“There now,” Fynster said with a sympathetic smile. “There are more Amelias. Squads of them, I’d reckon. You’ll find her, I’m quite certain.”