I finally typed The End, which I almost never do, on the 174th sheet of my new Regency. Whether it is the end or not, it is printed out and needs a title.  I'm thinking of Double Trouble but don't take that as final. Here's the opening:

London, 1811

 “Confound it, Ellen! Why in the world is he talking to her?”

Phee’s voice, though low, carried the unmistakable edge of fury. A flush rose high on her cheeks, and her periwinkle eyes, ordinarily cool and composed, sparked with indignation. She stood rigid, chin lifted, the ostrich plume in her hair trembling slightly with the force of her restraint.

Only Ellen, standing close enough to catch the words, heard them. She blinked once, slowly, and followed her sister’s gaze across the crowded withdrawing room that tonight did duty as ballroom.

There, beneath the golden glow of a dozen chandeliers, stood Richard, Lord Quarrington. Tall, dark-haired, and infuriatingly at ease with his situation, he was engaged in what appeared to be a most agreeable conversation with Lady Cecilia Frosterley. The latter, all pale gold curls and artful delicacy, tilted her head just so, her gloved fingers resting lightly on the edge of her fan. Her laugh, soft and silvery, floated across the room like a bell.

“He may speak to whomever he pleases,” Ellen said mildly, though her tone carried more caution than conviction.

But Phee was already moving, her silk skirts whispering with purpose as she strode across the parquet floor. Guests parted instinctively, some with murmured greetings, others with sidelong glances. Ellen followed, her own steps quieter, more measured.

“He does not need anyone’s permission to speak to any young lady of our acquaintance,” she added, catching up.

Phee halted so abruptly that Ellen nearly collided with her. Eyes blazing, she declared, “But he knows how much I dislike her.”

Ellen opened her mouth, then closed it again. She had learned, over the years, that Phee’s tempers were best met with patience, not argument. Still, she ventured, “And Lady Cecilia knows how much you admire him.”

Phee’s breath caught and for a moment, her expression faltered, showing a flicker of vulnerability beneath the outrage. Then she drew herself up, spine straight as a sword. “That is entirely beside the point.”

“Is it?” Ellen asked gently.

Phee didn’t answer. Her gaze had returned to the far corner of the room, where Lord Quarrington now leaned in slightly, saying something that made Lady Cecilia smile. Not the demure smile expected of a debutante, but something sly, knowing. And downright possessive.

Phee’s hands clenched at her sides.

The room was stifling. The scent of beeswax and lavender hung heavy in the air, mingling with the perfume of roses and the faint tang of perspiration. Music drifted from the musicians’ gallery playing a waltz, languid and sweet but Phee heard none of it. Her world had narrowed to that corner of the room, to that smile, to the way Richard’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed.

He had laughed like that with her once.