A peril to avoid at all costs.
She needed to concentrate on the goal. Two more seasons of wallflowerdom, and she’d inherit ten thousand pounds, free and clear. The money was already spoken for.
Taking care to avoid meeting the gazes of unmarried gentlemen, Priscilla made her way around the outskirts of the ballroom to the side farthest from the orchestra. She needed to be present, but not too present. After five uneventful years, she’d thought she had mastered the game.
This particular arena was an easy court to play in. Everyone came to Almack’s to see and be seen. Priscilla simply had a different reason than most.
“Who is that?” came a low whisper from somewhere behind her.
“Miss Weatherman?” guessed his friend. “Miss Winterbee?”
“Name doesn’t matter,” said the first. “Does she have money?”
Priscilla subtly slid to the opposite side of a pilaster. Shadows helped in a situation like this, but not enough. Props were often necessary.
She busied herself not with her empty dance card—to avoid planting ideas in their heads—but with an untouched glass of lemonade. Its presence in her hands made her unlikely to dance, but more importantly, prevented well-meaning gentlemen from offering to refill her glass.
Two points, Priscilla decided when the fortune-hunters walked away without approaching. It had taken no effort at all to avoid them, and besides, the gudgeons hadn’t done their homework. She had no riches.
Yet.
She swirled her lukewarm lemonade and gazed across the frenetic ballroom. A minuet had begun, and couples hurried into place. Pale pastels on the debutantes, brighter hues on the married women, the gentlemen all in tailcoats of black superfine.
Personally, she much preferred a round of whist to the call of the dance floor. But entering the card room, even as a spectator, would make her too interesting. Much safer to stay out here, one more swash of pastel pink in a crowd big enough to get lost in. Besides, the card room didn’t contain the only winners and losers.
Everyone said the Marriage Mart was a game. To amuse herself on long nights, Priscilla had decided to take that literally.
Everyone walked in the door of Almack’s bearing a voucher… and fifty points in Priscilla’s secret game. Depending on individual goals, points were won and lost all night long.
Rebuffed at the refreshment table? Minus five. Debutante dancing in the arms of a lord? Plus ten. Rake steals a kiss? Plus twenty for him. Minus twenty for the girl if she was a debutante hoping for a brilliant match. Plus thirty if the lady was a widow in search of fun. Plus fifty for both parties if the woman was an “ape-leader” doomed to a life of spinsterhood.
Priscilla could not wait to be an independently wealthy spinster. She would kiss all the rakes she wished, and walk away without a backward glance. Or kiss none at all! Independently wealthy spinsters had far better things to do with their time than provide background decoration in ton ballrooms.
“Excuse me,” came a nervous male voice.
Priscilla sneezed into her lemonade and fished for a non-existent handkerchief.
“Just a moment,” she bleated as nasally as possible. “It’s not catching. Don’t worry about your neckcloth. Did you want to see my dance card?”
He did not. He fled as though the fires of Vesuvius were upon them.
Definitely ten points for that one. She was getting much better at fake sneezes.
In order to earn her inheritance, Priscilla needed to avoid all potential suitors whilst remaining unquestionably on the market. She could not lock herself in her chambers for the next eighteen months, and then claim to have been unlucky in love.
The only way to win was to fail spectacularly.
Never let it be said that Priscilla Weatherby hadn’t done her part to be in the thick of the Marriage Mart! She attended every Wednesday ball at Almack’s without fail.
Since merely being present did not constitute actual participation, Priscilla was no stranger to the dance floor. She accepted dances solely from men who were clearly interested in other ladies, or not interested in them at all—and never more than two or three in a night.
Trial and error had proven this ratio enough to make her Not A Wallflower without being so flashy as to cause her to be an Object of Attention.
During every other night of her uneventful seasons, The Game had been more than enough to occupy her mind whilst awaiting the freedom of her twenty-fifth birthday.
Tonight, however, no matter where she stood or how violently she swirled her lemonade, she could not keep her eyes from Thaddeus Middleton.
He was currently dancing with his cousin, which was sweet enough without even factoring in that he’d taken her in as a ward when Diana had been orphaned five years ago, and under his watch the girl had managed to bring a duke up to scratch.
