Page 9 of Courting Claudia

Claudia smiled sheepishly. “I have a tendency to ramble.” She handed him her dance card.

Her first waltz was unclaimed. Perfect. Only one other name appeared on her card—Richard Foxmore—and he was on there no fewer than three times. She certainly kept poor company.

“How do you know Richard Foxmore?” Derrick couldn’t help but ask.

“He’s courting her,” Poppy answered.

Claudia shot her friend a look. He couldn’t interpret what it meant, but something about divulging that information made her uncomfortable.

“Indeed?”

“Pardon me?” A portly lady, late in her years, patted him on the arm with her fan. “Are you Mr. Middleton of London’s Illustrated Times?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I thought that might be you! I know this is terribly rude, but I’m an avid reader of your newspaper, and I simply must ask you a question. In last week’s issue of the Society Fashion Report, there was a picture of what I’m positive was myself—well, it just had to have been me, I mean the dress was perfect, as was the hair. I simply must know who the illustrator is. I would like to solicit him to do a painting of me for my daughter.”

It was then that she noticed Claudia and her friend.

“Goodness me, I nearly didn’t see you two. Good evening, Miss Prattley, Lady Penelope.”

“Lady Springdale,” they said in unison.

“Did you see the illustration?” she asked them. “It was simply marvelous.”

“I thought the very same,” Poppy said.

Derrick met Claudia’s glance, her soulful blue eyes pleading with him not to reveal her. “As it turns out, I cannot release that illustrator’s name. My illustrators insist on anonymity, and I must honor their request. But I shall certainly pass on your praise.”

“I expected as much.” She pursed her lips. “Those artists are a different sort. In any case, please pass on to him what I said. And if he ever wants to do portraits, I can be most discreet.” With that, she turned on her heel and huffed off.

“Discreet?” Poppy snorted.

“Is she not?” Derrick asked.

“She stops short of posting announcements in the Times,” Claudia said.

“If you will excuse me,” Poppy said. “I must go find my mother and check on her. She had the start of one of her headaches this afternoon.”

“That was a prime example of what I am put through nearly every time I venture into town,” Derrick said once they were alone. “Your work is highly praised.”

“Thank you for keeping my secret,” she said.

“I told you in my office that I would always keep your identity a secret. I don’t make statements like that lightly. I believe this next dance is ours.”

She looked down at her card. “So it is.”

“Shall we?” He held his arm out to her.

She eyed him warily, glancing to her right and then her left. She held out her gloved hand, and he led her to the floor.

The music swelled, and he swept her up into the waltz. Her blond ringlets began well below his chin—so much so that she had to tilt her head to make eye contact. The hint of peppermint tickled his nose, and he resisted the urge to lean closer and smell her hair.

“You must promise me that you’ll never tell anyone I beg,” he said.

“I’m sorry?” Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Tonight. You mustn’t ever tell anyone that I begged—it would ruin my bad reputation.”