Don't you?" Belinda lounged on Beryl's four-poster, her pale muslin afternoon gown a colorless gleam against the silken primrose duvet. Her blond curls fell on either side of her face, hiding her expression, but her chubby hands stilled amidst the swirling ribbon the maid had set out for Beryl's hair. She'd been playing with it for an hour, winding it about her fingers and letting it unwind and drift down to the duvet, while Nan had curled and laced and puffed Beryl into her finery. It was the first moment Belinda had been still all afternoon. "And a really good dancer." Still no movement. "Have you noticed?" "George Anson?" Beryl shuddered, then took another deep breath and held it. Nan's fingers paused, then resumed fastening the evening gown's pearl buttons. Tug, twist; tug, twist; inch by inch down her spine, currently at the small of her back. "I try not to." "Whyever not?" Belinda's face shot up, flinging back her obscuring curls. "His father's a lord and a senior bencher.
