Annabelle froze, still debating the merits of sprinting wildly for an exit. Her mother waded through the crowd, resplendent in a blue dress that showed off her trim figure to advantage, beaming in delight when she saw Annabelle. The Marquess of Sunderland. Well, as titled gentlemen went, he was one of the best catches of the Season. No doubt her mother was thrilled.
Annabelle was considerably less so. She took him in slowly. Sandy hair, blue-grey eyes, cheeks that were a trifle hollowed, pale skin. There were bags under his eyes. Thankfully, he wasn’t overly tall, and despite the very slight sickliness that clung to him, he contrived to be handsome enough. No doubt he was rich, too, in case the rest were not enough.
“Lord Sunderland,” the Dowager said. “Meet my daughter-in-law, Lady Annabelle Beaumont.”
The Marquess bowed. Annabelle curtsied, her tongue stuck, as usual, to the roof of her mouth. Now the Dowager had introduced them, there was absolutely no chance of fleeing without causing some kind of scandal, and considering her dowry alone was enough to make people look at her when she crossed a room, she didn’t think she could bear a scandal.
No, she was going to have to dance with him. It was inevitable.
The Marquess’s eyes sparked as though he could sense her thoughts, and his thin mouth pressed into a line that was either suppressing a grimace or a smile. “Lady Annabelle,” he said. “Would you do me the honour of this next dance?”
Her card fluttered at her wrist as, with an internal sigh, she accepted the Marquess’s proffered hand. “Of course, sir,” she said.
Yes, sir. Of course, sir. My pleasure, sir.All phrases designed to placate a gentleman. She’d come to hate them all.
The music began and the Marquess led her out into the middle of the ballroom where everyone could watch them. Not that this was unfamiliar to her—every dance so far had felt as though she was a trophy being paraded around the room. Her only consolation was that, if she could avoid marriage, in another couple of years she would probably be able to quietly retire from London Society. Then she would be able to sit and read in peace without any expectations she’d marry.
Another two Seasons of this. Her head pounded. The music was too loud, sawing on her open nerves with bows of jagged steel. The thought of enduring two more years of Society felt intolerable.
The Marquess looked at her as they linked hands and began the dance. His palms were warm and sweaty, unpleasant even through his gloves, and she knew the inevitable small talk was coming. They would discuss the same things she had discussed with every partner: the weather (cold), the number of couples (far too many), and how much she was enjoying the evening (she would be forced to lie through her teeth).
Perhaps she would accidentally step on his foot and he would leave her alone, concluding even her dowry wasn’t enough to overcome her shortcomings.
Perhaps she would step on his foot deliberately.
“I see you enjoy dancing as little as I,” he said.
Annabelle began to give a vapid agreement before his words penetrated. She frowned, glancing up at him. “You do not enjoy dancing?”
“I much prefer a good book.”
She was speechless. This was not an uncommon event, but usually it was because she had nothing to say. Now, too many things sprung to mind. Instead of empty, her mind was buzzing with the improbability of a gentleman saying such a thing to her, and what the correct response would be.
The dance parted them, and by the time they came back together, his hand limp around hers, she had almost gathered her wits.
“You like to read?”
“In my opinion, it is one of the greatest pleasures in life.”
Annabelle thought back to Fanny Hill and her face flushed tomato red. “You like novels, sir?”
“I do. Do you?” He looked down at her with a serious expression. “I have seen you often at Hatchards.”
“You were watching me?” she blurted, then clamped her mouth shut. This was why she was better suited to the peace and quiet of a library.
“I confess I was,” he said. “It is not often I meet a young lady quite so interested in reading.”
“What is your favourite novel?”
“A charmingly difficult question. Do you have a favourite novel, Lady Annabelle?”
Again, she thought back to the book she had been reading, and tried not to let her thoughts show on her face. “PerhapsEvelina,” she said. “OrSense and Sensibility.”
“Ah yes, I’m familiar. You enjoy novels, I presume, that reflect on the position of women?”
“And that are written by women.” Annabelle tilted her head as she looked at him. Now they were on her favourite subject—books—she found she was far less tongue-tied. “Do you value lady authors, sir?”
“I think to write a book is an admirable thing whether the author is a man or a woman.”
