Her guardian nodded. “Yes. It is a reach but not altogether impossible. And an alliance with that family would be ideal.”
“Would it?”
“Of course. He is only the second son, but it seems Lord Berkeley is not in attendance—and you could not charm him even if you had charm. As my ward, you will have certain advantages, but my title is not enough to propel you so far past the circumstances of your birth.”
Her eyes narrowed at the comment on her family. No one ever spoke of her parents. She knew hardly anything beyond their names. William and Sarah Faraday. What a legacy she held—to know only her parents’ names. “And what, pray tell, are those circum—”
Another voice cut into their discussion. “Lord Tarrington, I do declare you have been hiding someone from us.” The newcomer was rather portly with a kind, happy expression gracing his youthful face. He appeared younger than she with maybe only nineteen years to his age.
“Belcher.” Lord Tarrington bowed stiffly.
My, what an unfortunate last name. And unfortunate timing—though experience told her she’d have learned nothing by asking.
“Do introduce me to this young lady, Tarrington.”
Lydia straightened, her mind at war. Did she even want to meet anyone? Did she want to play along with Tarrington’s games?
No. But she had to.
“This is my ward, Miss Faraday. Miss Faraday, this is Mr. Belcher.”
Lydia did not even wince at hearing the name again. She curtsied—rather prettily, if she might be so proud—and murmured, “How do you do?”
“Capital, capital. Might I beg you as a partner for the reel, Miss Faraday? That is, if you are not otherwise engaged.”
“No.” His eyes widened, and she hastily added, “I mean, no, I am not engaged, and yes, I would be gratified to dance with you.” Perhaps Lord Tarrington was correct and Lydia should not be speaking overmuch.
Mr. Belcher smiled, though it appeared befuddled. “Capital. I shall collect you for the set after next.”
Afraid to open her mouth again, Lydia simply curtsied. Less prettily this time.
Then she almost jumped when Lord Tarrington spoke thoughtfully as Mr. Belcher walked away. “Belcher has an ample estate in Hertfordshire, but he is not particularly worth our time. Do not encourage him beyond a dance.”
And suddenly, poor last name and all, she had a great desire to encourage Mr. Belcher’s attention. She turned to the baron, an eyebrow cocked. “And if I like the man?”
He spared her half a glance, surveying the room with a hawk-eyed stare. “Your personal preferences are not so important as a good connection.”
She frowned, several arguments bubbling to the surface of her mind. In marriage, one would think personal preferences ought to play an immense role. Certainly she knew that Lord Tarrington wished to marry her off, but could she not choose her own groom? If his point was marriage regardless, why should he care overmuch?
The next set began, and Lydia watched as the couples lined up and began the various forms. Suddenly, all her pitiful dance lessons had seemed to slip from her head.
Lord Tarrington angled his head to the right. “Here is Mr. Frank Colbert.”
Was she supposed to know who that was?
This time, it was a dashing young man, possibly only a year or two older than herself. Her eyes widened as it became clear that he was, in fact, heading toward them, weaving through the crowd with an athletic grace that was rather attractive.
“Lord Tarrington.” Even his voice was attractive. It had an almost gravelly undertone. His eyes flicked to Lydia. They were blue, of course. “Do introduce me to your...”
He left the sentence dangling, allowing Lord Tarrington to take up the unspoken question. “My ward,” he grunted. Not for the first time, Lydia wondered what in heaven’s name had possessed her father to name this grouchy old man her guardian. But the Adonis was bowing over her hand as her guardian announced, “Miss Faraday, this is Mr. Frank Colbert.”
Lydia kept her mouth tightly shut so as to not have the same sort of embarrassing interchange that she’d had with Mr. Belcher. Still, a single word slipped between the barricades. “Delighted.”
That . . . sort of made sense in this situation . . . did it not?
“As am I, Miss Faraday. Might I secure your hand for the next set?”
True disappointment made her offer a sad smile. That was the set she had promised Mr. Belcher. “I am afraid I am already engaged.”
