May I see your dance card?”“Don’t you believe me?” She presented it to him with a flourish.He ran his fingers down the list of names.“Hmm . . . Waterburn? Bastard. D’Andre. Definitely a worthless bastard. Lord Camber, a thoroughgoing bastard. Lord Michaelson? Bastard. Peter Cheswick? Bast—”She snatched it from him, laughing.“I wouldn’t dance a waltz with you, anyway, Lord Dryden.”“No?”“You might accidentally lock eyes with Lisbeth Redmond, stumble, and fling me across the room to avoid crushing my feet.