He expected to see her at the Sizemore musicale, which was the only reason he let his mama drag him there. Two hours of listening to what sounded like a hen caterwauling and not a glimpse of golden curls. He left the event in a huff and went to his club, where he passed the evening losing fifty pounds to the Earl of Tumbridge. The exercise was repeated the next evening, at Lady Weston’s route. His delighted mama watched him make conversation with Miss Portia Hedgley under the very pleased eye of that lady’s father. The talk was desultory and bored the duke to flinders. If he had to hear another word about ostrich-plumed hats, he was going to scream. At the first possible moment, he offered to fetch the lady wine and disappeared into the crowd. He cornered Philip and made him deliver the refreshment to Miss Hedgley. “What should I tell her?” asked Philip when charged with this task. “She’s going to ask what happened to you, and I’m going to look like a queer fellow if I don’t know.”
