Page 93 of Appointment in Bath

“Has he, indeed,” Meg murmured. Rather presumptuous of him. Her father was the senior gentleman among them and the one of higher rank. He didn’t require Lord Beaumont to lend him countenance.

But Meg had no opportunity to express her misgivings. She and her father had gone no more than a few steps farther into the ballroom when the man himself approached to pay his addresses.

“Sir Frederick.” Lord Beaumont swept them a bow. “I’m gratified you could come.” His lordship was a slender man, well above thirty, with a thick brown mustache, a close-trimmed beard, and a long, aristocratic blade of a nose.

“Beaumont,” Meg’s father said. “You’ve met my daughter.”

Lord Beaumont inclined his head. “Miss Burton-Smythe.”

“My lord,” she said, returning his brief salute.

He cast a perusing look over her pink ball gown. What he saw seemed to satisfy his sense of importance. “If I may be so bold as to reserve your first dance?”

“What dance would that be?” Meg’s father raised his voice to be heard above the music and the stomping of the dancers. “A galop? A polka?”

“There is indeed a galop and a polka on the program,” Lord Beaumont said. “However, it’s a waltz that’s slated for next.”

A waltz.

The very dance Meg had dreamed of dancing with Ivo. But that dream was no more. She supposed she must be satisfied to waltz with anyone. Even someone as officious and uninspiring as Lord Beaumont.

“With your permission, Sir Frederick,” Lord Beaumont said, ignoring the fact that Meg had yet to give her own.

“By all means,” her father replied. “I shall seek out a seat for myself.”

“Allow me to assist you.” Lord Beaumont ushered him to a vacant chair along the dance floor. “You may rest here quite comfortably until we’re finished.”

There was faint applause as the quadrille came to an end. A surge of people brushed past, some couples exiting the floor and others moving toward it, eager to take their places. The orchestra commenced the opening strains of the waltz.

Mr. Beaumont extended his hand to Meg. “Miss Burton-Smythe. If you will?”

Before she could answer, a tall, handsome golden-haired gentleman emerged from the crowd. He was clad in elegantly tailored black-and-white eveningwear, his silver spectacles glinting in the flickering light from the crystal chandelier above. Jaw set with resolve, he strode forward to join their party, as confidently as if he’d been offered an invitation.

Meg’s eyes went round.

Good gracious. It was Ivo!

“Miss Burton-Smythe. Sir Frederick.” He sketched a bow.

Meg stared at him, her heart threatening to leap straight out of her chest. It was all she could do to keep her countenance. To stop her mouth from spreading into a foolish grin like any besotted simpleton.

He was here! He had come to Bath!

It was no coincidence. It couldn’t be.

“Mr. Beresford,” Meg’s father said ominously. “At long last.” He regarded Ivo from beneath sunken brows. “I wondered when you might arrive.”

Meg turned her shocked gaze on her father. “You were expecting him?”

“I’m no fool,” her father said. And then to Ivo: “What took you so long, lad?”

“Forgive my tardiness,” Ivo said. “I’ve been in Bath all of a week and—”

“A week!” Meg echoed, stunned.

Ivo’s mouth hitched in a fleeting, lopsided smile. “Indeed. I’d have called sooner, but I seem to have misplaced your direction.”

“We’re in Camden Place,” Meg blurted out.