The blame for this discontent could not be laid at his last partner’s feet. No, Miss Vanhorne had been as dutiful and as proper as any of society’s debutantes on display during this current London season. But what disturbed his equilibrium? The answer to that question lay just beyond his reach. He made his way back to his out-of-the-way lookout — the satin draped picture window — then turned around to observe the party in progress. Spotting Miss Branford’s elegant figure dressed in half-mourning, he watched as she participated in the dignified pattern of a minuet. Her face was aglow with pleasure as she gazed at her nobly born companion. Prince Augustus was in rare form tonight. David sighed. Perhaps he should have remained in Paris. There was nothing for him here in England. Nothing but duties and responsibilities. “Lud, man. You’ve a countenance more suited for a funeral than a gala fête, don’t you know?”
