Page 2 of The Trouble with Anna

A ball of blush pink and bouncing black curls crashed into her.

“There you are!” cried Lady Charlotte. “I thought you’d never arrive. How do you like my party?”

“It’s glorious. I love it,” Anna lied loyally.

Charlotte beamed. “Let’s have a look at you. How does the gown I sent over fit?”

Oh dear. Not even a lie could save Anna now. The fit of the gown wasn’t too tragic, but somehow the apricot silk made her look paler and more pinched than ever, and it felt so odd against her skin that Anna kept twitching. All the other young women whirled around looking proud and glorious in their finery, but she yearned to be back in the sensible wool of her riding habits. There was nothing to do but shake her head and laugh. “I look a wreck, Charlotte. Even you have to admit it.”

Charlotte frowned. “Where’s the sash?”

Anna glanced down at herself. “Oh! I must have lost it in the carriage.”

“Anna, really! There’s no shape to the gown without the—never mind! You should have told me earlier that you had nothing to wear.”

“How was I to know my gown had a whacking great stain on it?”

“Yes, youronegown. And how many million riding habits do you have? If you would give me just a few hours at the village seamstress, I could—”

“Enough, Charlotte!” cried Anna. “I’m here, aren’t I? Surely that counts?”

Charlotte sighed. “I know how you feel about parties, but—”

A footman coughed discreetly at Charlotte’s elbow. “My lady, Gifford would like a word. There’s a troupe of fire-eaters on the doorstep, and—”

“Oh, have they arrived? Anna, I won’t be a moment. I promise you’ll have fun tonight, even if we have to sneak up to the gallery and drop ice chips on the dowagers.”

Charlotte skipped away into the crowd, leaving Anna alone. Only fifteen minutes in, and already the night felt endless.

At least it can’t get much worse.

Julian Aveton, the Earl Ramsay, stood in the center of his Suffolk ballroom and brooded. Being an earl, he reflected, was not just counting gold and banishing peasants, as the average Englishman seemed to think. In fact, in the fifteen years since the coronet had first landed on his head, Julian hadn’t banished so much as a single farmer and wouldn’t enjoy the task if it fell to him. Rather, most of his days were busy with drainage, dry rot, and seeping damp in places damp ought not to be. Come to think of it, the average Englishman might be quite sympathetic, if only he remembered the average English weather.

Certainly, very few Englishmen would envy him Charlotte. Was this really her idea of a simple country dance?

Ten years younger and the product of his father’s second marriage, Charlotte was generally one of Julian’s favorite problems, but this time she’d gone wildly past the limit. She’d crammed his ballroom full of people, all in their finest gowns and jewels, all fanning themselves against the heat of the crush and their ownexcitement. Revelers spilled out down the terraces, laughing too loud under peach and apricot lanterns that splashed light against the lawn below. Champagne flowed into great towers of crystal coupes, and some of the younger guests already sported the glassy eyes and hectic smiles to prove it.

He always noticed who drank too much.

So how should he respond to Charlotte? Should it be chains? The dungeon? Should he sever her head, or worse, her allowance? Or—since she had been out four Seasons now and was much too old for any of that—should he congratulate her instead?

A burst of flame erupted from across the ballroom and the guests gasped and applauded as a troupe of fire-eaters began twirling their torches. Julian took a long sip of champagne, a particularly excellent vintage smuggled up from his own private cellar, he noted.Definitelythe dungeon, then.

Julian turned his attention to another grievance, the sweetest and yet the most vexing.

Petit fours.

Two whole tables full, taunting him.

Little pink petit fours wrapped up like presents and filled with strawberry cream. Tempting white domes, each finished with a twist of sugared lemon. And of course the chocolate ones, each topped by a single pouting raspberry, calling to him like a dark addiction.

His sister was a fiend.

Also a master tactician who knew all his weaknesses.

A peal of laughter caught his attention. There she was, by the terrace doors, in charge of an army of lovestruck young men.

Julian inclined his head and she came dashing over. “This is a small country dance?”

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