The Very Definition of Love

Harriet loathed dancing. More accurately, she loathed watching people dance. Which is what she normally did at balls. There were so many better uses of her time, like reading, or sending words to Mr. Dawkins, or keeping her sisters away from their father, or their father away from the gambling tables. Normally, the prospect of leaving for a ball within the half hour would have her filled with dread.

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The few times she had danced, mostly during her debut season, had proved disastrous. Unfortunately, as the eldest unmarried daughter of the Earl of Tidewell, dancing—or observing dances—was to be her lot in life for a little while longer. It was as unspoken as it was obvious that Harriet was not likely to marry after five unsuccessful seasons, but no one had any definitive answers for when she might be allowed to beg off the charade.

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Harriet would have gladly married the nearest available man simply to get out of attending balls; however, this was not an option available to her. Her elder sister, Philippa, had already strained the bounds of propriety with her marriage six years ago, and was now, as a widow, further testing society’s limits. Any damage Philippa hadn’t done to the Bancroft family’s reputation, their father had taken care of.

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Of course, this overlooked the chief reason Harriet didn’t just marry the first man she brushed past at a ball: Gentlemen always seemed to have better options about, and those options were so often her own sisters. When coerced into attendance, Harriet spent balls holding wineglasses and eyeglasses, lending a hairpin or mending a hem, watching as Philippa and Caroline danced with and dazzled haute society.

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But tonight was going to be different. Oh god, she hoped it would be different. According to his latest letter, Mr. Dawkins had arrived from Oxford last week and was to be at the Dunley ball. Lady Dunley took pride in just how full her ballroom could get and didn’t mind inviting a few non-peers if it meant that the season started with a crush. Tonight was about one thing, and one thing only:

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“Your breasts,” Philippa said.