Miss Mountroy, with her purple bonnet, was chattering, and Alworth had his face turned towards her and smiled that charming smile of his.
Pen had felt a fierce stab in her heart that took her breath away.
It wasn’t mere jealousy. It was a poisoned barb right in her heart that, if she pulled it out, would leave a definite hole.
Pen had yanked her bonnet down over her face and turned aside when they passed. Her heart hammered, her palms were sweaty, and she wondered whether this overall feverish feeling that had taken hold of her body meant that she was falling ill.
This was Alworth, she told herself. So there should be no reason at all why her heart was leaping out of her chest, knowing he was nearby. He was just Alworth, and granted, she hadn’t seen him for several weeks, and she missed him. She missed his friendship, his easy laughter, the sleepy smile in his eyes, the sarcastic tilt around his lips. She missed his wit, and dash it, even his pink waistcoat.
She missed him—well—almost in the same way she used to miss Marcus, with every fibre of her being.
Pen stood stock still.
Charlotte pulled on her arm and continued chattering, not noticing that Pen’s world had just tilted.
Pen wondered whether he’d have recognised her in her pale-yellow walking dress and corkscrew curls. So far, none of the club acquaintances had as much as blinked in recognition when she’d met them at various soirees and breakfasts. Granted, there hadn’t been too many, and only one had enquired whether she might, possibly, be the sister to That Indian Prince Who’d Brought Blackstone to his Knees (and what an excellent game that had been!) and who’d vanished a month ago.
The maid entered to prepare her bath.
Pen set down her quill.
There was no purpose to writing a missive. She had to go to the ball to meet him and talk to him herself.
