Chapter Eleven
The Giffords’ ballroom was a forest of greenery. Potted palms sprouted in the corners, ferns uncurled delicate fronds, and ivy spilled from various torchères and jardinières. Arabella looked around as she entered. A contredanse was in progress, the dancers advancing across the floor in time with the music.
“How delightful,” her grandmother said, glancing around. “So verdant.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” Arabella suppressed a sigh. Two and a half more weeks of this.
With her grandmother happily ensconced in the card room, a glass of champagne at her elbow and a pile of guineas in front of her, Arabella was free—in her grandmother’s words—to enjoy herself. I’d rather be at home. She glanced back at her grandmother. Lady Westwick was avidly examining her first hand of cards.
Arabe
