“Here” being the annual Folkestone Starry Night Gala, his mother’s own ball, considered by the best of London society as the gateway to the first great events of the season.He respectfully disagreed.Jamie leaned on the stone balustrade of the Folkestone town house, a champagne flute precariously dangling over the edge from one negligent hand, and surveyed the lantern-festooned garden with a jaded eye. The garden, like the ballroom inside, was turned out to perfection; elegant with no pretensions toward gaudiness; a vision to entice the eye and entrap the unwary. Not unlike the brilliantly colored Indian red sand boa he’d read about recently. More than one gentleman had had his freedom strangled from an unwise venture into lantern-lit gardens.He should go back inside and play the good host. He was expected to be the supportive son. That meant dancing with a multitude of white-gowned girls his mother deemed likely aspirants to be his wife, the next Viscountess Knole.Jamie dreaded the prospect.
