Annabelle rolled her eyes. If she succeeded in her goal of remaining unmarried, which was seeming increasingly unlikely with every passing day, she would never have a chance to experience whatever pleasures were outlined in the book. “I won’t.”
“And do not let Mama see you’ve been reading such a thing.”
“I won’t,” Annabelle said again, tucking the book in the corner. She sighed, resigned, as the sound of her name cut through the air. “I suppose I should see what she wants with me.”
“You mean who,” Theo said.
“Spare me,” Annabelle muttered. “How did you persuade your suitors not to propose?”
“I didn’t,” Theo said heavily. “Remember the Earl of Whitstable?”
Annabelle fell silent. As it happened, she did remember the Earl of Whitstable, the elderly gentleman who had wanted to marry Theo for her childbearing hips. If it hadn’t been for Nathanial intervening and proposing instead, their lives would look very different.
At least she did not have childbearing hips. Although it appeared her dowry was sadly large enough to offset that particular defect.
“It’s like she’s trying to marry me off before I turn twenty,” Annabelle said heavily.
“Well that does only leave her four months,” Theo said, and squealed as Annabelle pinched her arm. “Just reject all your offers. The Dowager and Mama can’t do much about that.”
“Easy enough for you to say,” Annabelle said, taking a few deep breaths as she prepared to leave her refuge. “You’d have married Whitstable if Nathanial hadn’t come along and proposed instead.”
“I would have done my duty by my family,” Theo said primly, “but now I’ve provided for us all, and excellently I might add, you have more freedom of choice.”
More freedom to choose a man she liked, Theo meant—Annabelle was still expected to take a husband. Even her sister, sympathetic to a fault, didn’t really believe she would go through with her plan to remain unmarried.
No. A romantic at heart, Theo believed Annabelle just had to meet the right man and fall in love and everything would slot into place. What she didn’t understand was Annabelle struggled to talk to strangers, and the chance of her meeting a man she cared about, who also shared her aversion to Society and London, was deeply unlikely. The very thought of spending the rest of her life with someone she despised was enough to make her skin prickle.
And, frankly, Annabelle would rather read a good book.
“Oh no,” Theo whispered as a nasally voice went past. “Wait a moment. That’s Lady Tabitha.”
Annabelle had met Lady Tabitha enough to know two things: she was an insatiable gossip, and she didn’t respect personal boundaries.
They waited until she’d gone before emerging from their hiding place, brushing down their dresses and hoping no one had seen them.
Objectively, Annabelle knew the ball was a success. Hothouse flowers were wound around the pillars and overflowing from copper bowls. Lamps and chandeliers sent merry, flickering light across the room, and the floor was elaborately chalked.
It was also loud, hot, and crowded, and she hated it.
Nathanial hailed Theo from where he stood with a large circle of his friends. Annabelle could have gone too, but she didn’t particularly enjoy trailing behind her sister like a lost puppy. For a moment, she was tempted to flee to the double doors at the end of the room. Escaping via them would mean traversing the entire ballroom, but once she was there, she could easily make her way to her bedchamber. Or, failing that, the library.
“Lady Annabelle,” the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk called, coursing through the crowd like a ship in particularly full sail, a gentleman following in her wake. Young ladies scrambled to move out of the way, and Annabelle couldn’t blame them. She felt like a butterfly pinned to a board.
“Your Grace,” she managed, sinking into a curtsy.
“Where have you been? Your own ball and you have only stood up twice.” The Dowager sniffed, piercing Annabelle with a glare that went straight through her, and lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “Don’t look so nervous, girl. It’s not becoming.”
As far as the Dowager was concerned, nothing Annabelle did was becoming, which was probably why she was determined to get Annabelle married off so quickly.
“No, ma’am,” Annabelle said quietly.
“Good. Now”—the Dowager slapped her closed fan against her gloved hand—“I have a gentleman who wishes to be acquainted with you.”
Annabelle reluctantly glanced at the sandy-haired man to the Dowager’s right, who had remained silent for this entire exchange.
“This,” the Dowager said with no little excitement, “is the Marquess of Sunderland.”
Chapter Two
