“Maybe,” he replied. “Or it could be emblematic of your complete lack of attention to every other concession to fashion. I’m always surprised when a lady’s maid gets you to sit still for more than five minutes.”
“Why does my fashion have to match anyone else’s?” Bryony pointed out reasonably. “All these other girls look just like each other, and it hasn’t helped them ensnareyourheart.”
True enough. After more than a decade of such functions, Heath had yet to find the woman he wished to have at his side for the rest of his life.
It wasn’t that he sought physical perfection. Or even to increase the barony’s social ties by marrying the daughter of an earl or a duke.
Heath cared less about external traits like titles, and more about the caliber of the woman inside. Only someone completely aboveboard—whose heart and ethics he could trust implicitly—would do. Someone who would never embarrass his family with a scandal. All other conditions were secondary.
And in the meantime, he was perfectly happy to dance with wallflowers. Who knew? Perhaps the shyest debutante in the room would be the one to steal his heart.
At the other side of the large chamber, a flash of pink and red caught his eye. He straightened.
There. His mystery woman. Reentering the salon from one of the side passages.
“Found her,” he murmured to his sister.
“What are you waiting for?” She jabbed him with her elbow. “Go.”
He glanced over his shoulder. The current waltz was still underway. There was no time to arrange a formal introduction. What if the young lady had been summoning her carriage? His jaw tightened. He had to catch her now before she disappeared completely.
Heath sliced through the crowd in pursuit.
“We meet again,” he said as soon as he reached her side.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it just as suddenly. Her head tilted in bewilderment. Wide blue eyes studied him as if memorizing every aspect of his person. “Did you just run through the crowd?”
“Yes. No.” Dear God, what if he looked a fright? Heath cleared his throat. “Perhaps I strolled a touch hurriedly.”
“I see.” Her deep blue eyes stared back at him as if she did indeed see far more than he had intended.
“Let us start anew. I am Mr. Grenville.” Heath made an extravagant leg. “Would you be so kind as to let me know your name?”
Rather than curtsey in return, she took a step back. “You have me confused with someone else, my lord.”
“How can I, when I haven’t the slightest inkling who you are?” he asked reasonably.
At least, he hoped he could still count on reason. He had never witnessed a debutante fail to curtsey after an introduction. Much less retreat backward, as if heirs to baroncies were to be avoided at all costs.
He did not close the gap. His goal had been to befriend, not frighten her.
“May I know your name?” he asked more gently.
“Eleanora Winfield,” she mumbled, the words almost too soft to hear.
“Miss Winfield.” Heath gave an even deeper, more elegant bow. “It is my delight and honor to make your acquaintance.”
She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.
This was not going well at all.
Heath smiled back at her winningly. Perhaps she was even shyer than any wallflower he’d ever met. What could he do to put her at ease? He took stock of what he knew so far.
Her name was Eleanora Winfield. Including one’s first name in an introduction was usually an indication that one was a younger sister. Heath’s sister Camellia was Miss Grenville, the next eldest was Miss Dahlia Grenville, the youngest Miss Bryony Grenville. Using first names to differentiate sisters was standard practice, particularly when all three were present.
Yet he was not at all certain that was why Miss Winfield had done so. After all, if he had no idea whoshewas, how could he possibly confuse her with her siblings?
And then there was the curtsey. Or lack thereof.
