Surely there is something that can be done to stop it. Do you not agree, Charlmont…? Charlmont…? Lucian!” The sound of his own name jerked Lucian rudely back to the present in a way that could not be ignored. He had, for the moment, been so wrapped up in calculating his horse’s chances of winning at Newmarket that he had completely succeeded in wiping all consciousness of his present situation from his mind. What madness had possessed him to make him agree to appear at Almack’s this evening? He loathed the place, and the company—dull, predictable, and smug. And he had assiduously avoided it since his salad days, when he could have been forgiven for not knowing any better. He glanced hopefully around the room, but the dowagers putting their turbaned heads together sharing scandal broth and the half-eager, half-shy glances of young misses in their first Season only served to confirm his worst fears. This was not a dream. He truly was at Almack’s. It had not changed the slightest bit.
