TWENTY EIGHT
I was seated in my chamber, engaged in a quiet game of chess, though my thoughts were far removed from the board before me. So lost was I in contemplation that I did not perceive George’s entrance until I felt a gentle tap upon my shoulder. Startled, I turned at once, only to find him standing beside me with that familiar look of mischief mingled with concern. “Have you considered attending the ball?” he asked. I replied, half-sighing, “It is not as though I have much of a choice in the matter.” He took my hands in his, his countenance earnest. “The ball is held for the benefit of all England.” “There is something you are withholding from me,” I said, searching his eyes. “I only hope it was not Papa who sent you.” George exhaled impatiently and rolled his eyes. “It was my mother who
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