He knew the sort of vain, coquettish woman Lady Persephone was. She delighted in tormenting the wallflowers and believed that her father’s wealth would solve all problems. “I might indeed,” he answered. “But then I’d not have the pleasure of meeting so many young ladies.”
Her face narrowed in a frown and then turned to a sly smile as she beckoned to two other ladies. “Miss Cooper, Lady Chelsea, were you both aware that Lord Dunmeath is looking for a bride?”
Cormac didn’t recognize them, but one of the other young women tittered. “Everyoneknows he’s looking for a bride. If you put your dog in a gown, Lady Persephone, he would probably propose to her as well.”
Lady Persephone laughed prettily and waved her hand in dismissal. “I wish you luck, Lord Dunmeath.”
He ignored her taunting and turned his back on Lady Persephone. She, at least, was one young woman he would never ask to wed.
His gaze passed over the other young ladies—Miss Abrams... Lady Diana... and then he saw her. Miss Barnes. Or was it Bartley? Dash it all, he couldn’t quite recall her name, but the young woman stood near the edge of the ballroom, quietly observing the others.
Cormac knew there was something he was supposed to remember. Something he was meant to ask that was connected to this young woman, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall it. So, he passed through the crowds of people, making his way to her side.
“It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?” she said to a gentleman passing by. The fellow glanced at her with surprise but gave no answer.
“That’s three,” he overheard her muttering to herself. “Two more.”
Two more what? In spite of himself, his curiosity got the better of him. He took a few steps closer, and then saw her speak to another gentleman, “Hello.”
The man didn’t even spare her a glance but continued toward the opposite side of the room.
“And four,” she continued.
Was she... counting the number of times she spoke to a gentleman? Or the number of times one spurned her? What precisely had she meant by “two more”? On impulse, Cormac went to stand beside Miss Whatever-Her-Name-Was. “Four what?” he asked.
She jolted at the sound of his voice and turned to face him. “I’m—sorry, but did you say something, sir?”
“I was asking you what you were counting,” he remarked.
Beneath her breath, he thought he heard her say, “And that makes five.” But after that, she said, “Oh, nothing really. It was a wager from one of my friends. She dared me to speak with five gentlemen and claimed that I couldn’t do it. I believe you have just helped me win.”
He smiled at that. “An interesting wager, to be sure. What is your prize?”
Her cheeks colored, and she said, “I’m not certain yet. I’ll find out, Monday next.”
Cormac studied the young lady closely. She had long black hair pulled into an elaborate arrangement with curls resting on her cheeks. Her green eyes were striking against her pale complexion, and he found her rather lovely, even though she preferred to remain apart from the others. Her gown was nondescript—a short-sleeved, high-waisted white frock with a blue sash. Yet, it seemed that her eyes drifted toward the ballroom, almost as if she were thinking of something else. Or perhapssomeoneelse.
Then he thought a moment and asked, “Have we met before?”
“We have, but you probably don’t remember me. I am Emma Bartholomew. And, if my memory serves, you are Lord Dunmeath. From Ireland, I believe?”
“You do have an excellent memory,” he complimented her. Which would be a great benefit if this lady would consider him. “My home is near Kerry. Have you ever been to Ireland?”
“No, I haven’t.”
It was the first time any of the young women in London had spoken to him for more than a few sentences, and he warned himself not to make any mistakes. “It’s lovely there,” he admitted. “Very green it is, with fields as far as the eye can see.”
“What brings you to London?” Her gaze drifted back to the ballroom.
Cormac hesitated, unsure of what to say. If he told her he was seeking a wife, she might believe he’d scorned the women of his homeland. And although he’d already considered many of the young ladies in Ireland, word had gotten out about his family curse. Many were superstitious and refused to have anything to do with him—not if he was going to join his father and brother in an early grave.
His mother’s demand that he leave Ireland had forced him to visit the infamous marriage mart of London. The city was indeed filled with heiresses, and there were many ladies to choose from, to be sure. He could only hope that he would find the right woman to bring home again.
“My mother forced me to come,” he admitted. “She has a townhouse here, and she asked me to see about the property. I have to make a decision on what to do with it.”
“Is it in good condition?” she asked.
“Not too bad,” he admitted. “But I’ve yet to decide whether to sell it. Unless my wife wants me to keep it, that is.”
