“
Benedict!”
Damn. He’d nearly made a clean escape. He looked up to see his mother hurrying toward him. She was dressed in some sort of Elizabethan costume. He supposed she was meant to be a character in one of Shakespeare’s plays, but for the life of him, he had no idea which.
“What can I do for you, Mother?” he asked. “And don’t say ‘Dance with Hermione Smythe-Smith.’ Last time I did that I nearly lost three toes in the process.”
“I wasn’t going to ask anything of the sort,” Violet replied. “I was going to ask you to dance with Prudence Featherington.”
“Have mercy, Mother,” he moaned. “She’s even worse.”
“I’m not asking you to marry the chit,” she said. “Just dance with her.”
Benedict fought a groan. Prudence Featherington, while essentially a nice person, had a brain the size of a pea and a laugh so grating he’d seen grown men flee with their hands over their ears. “I’ll tell you what,” he wheedled. “I’ll dance with Penelope Featherington if you keep Prudence at bay.”
“That’ll do,” his mother said with a satisfied nod, leaving Benedict with the sinking sensation that she’d wanted him to dance with Penelope all along.
“She’s over there by the lemonade table,” Violet said, “dressed as a leprechaun, poor thing. The color is good for her, but someone really must take her mother in hand next time they venture out to the dressmaker. A more unfortunate costume, I can’t imagine.”
“You obviously haven’t seen the mermaid,” Benedict murmured.
She swatted him lightly on the arm. “No poking fun at the guests.”
“But they make it so easy.”
She shot him a look of warning before saying, “I’m off to find your sister.”
“Which one?”
“One of the ones who isn’t married,” Violet said pertly.
”
”