“A contract. No gambling. I won’t have you squandering my ward’s fortune as well as your own.”
“Oh, er, I think I see my cousin. I must greet him. I beg your pardon. Your Grace, Lady Glynis, Miss Crewe.” Lord Darbyshire made a few hasty bows and rushed away.
“Good riddance,” Lady Glynis said. “He’s thoroughly unsuitable.”
“Thank you very much, Your Grace,” Ana said. “You chased away my first, and only, would-be suitor.”
“He’s nothing but a fortune hunter,” growled the duke.
“So what if he is? He’s fair to look upon, and we were only going to dance, not run away to Gretna Green.”
“Miss Crewe!” Lady Glynis exclaimed. “You mustn’t speak of such indelicate things.”
“My ward is not going to dance with a known profligate and gambler.”
“I’m not going to dance with anyone if you scare them away. Why did you buy me this new wardrobe and the etiquette lessons and all of it if you were only going to ruin my prospects?”
“He’s not good enough,” he said vehemently. “Trust me.”
“Don’t all the young lords gamble and drink? Isn’t that their job in life?”
“He’s not right for you.”
“Didn’t you drink and gamble at his age?”
“Enough.” His large right hand raised in an unconsciously commanding gesture, the officer keeping his regiment in line.
“You are frustratingly domineering.”
Lady Glynis cocked her head forbiddingly at Ana, her eyebrows arched emphatically. “He’s your guardian, Miss Crewe. You must abide by his judgment and submit to him in all things.”
Submit to him.Why did those words make her head spin and her palms feel clammy? “At least give me a chance to dance with someone.”
“Only those suitors I deem appropriate.”
“You should have written up a list of approved gentlemen before the ball.”
“I promised your father that I would—”
“I know what you promised. And you’ve fulfilled it. You’ve restored my fortunes, launched me in society, and provided me with the most correct of chaperones. Your duty is done. You may leave now.”
“Don’t speak to him like that,” warned her chaperone.
“Warburton, you remember my son, Lord Chetwynd-Ellerton?”
A woman’s voice destroyed the intimate moment. The duke dropped Ana’s hand. “Lady Chetwynd-Ellerton, of course.”
The dowager countess and her son were a matched set, from their sloping cheeks to their solid ankles. There was nothing stimulating or sharp about them—they were stolid and dull as old doorknobs.
“And Lady Glynis, I haven’t seen you in an age. How are your prize roses?”
“Tolerably well, though it’s been unseasonably cold already.”
“Miss Crewe.” Lord Chetwynd-Ellerton made a bow. “Might I have the privilege of being your first dance partner?”
The duke nodded. “She would be delighted.”
Ana glared at him. She wasn’t allowed to make her own choice, apparently.