“That doesn’t signify.”
“Won’t Lady Helton expect you to make an appearance? What good is the marriage mart if all the eligible gentlemen make themselves scarce rather than escort a few wallflowers through a set or two?” Not that she agreed with it. But she couldn’t help but argue against the double standard.
“Don’t bring my mother into this.” Mr. Black lifted one brow. “Besides, unmarried and eligible aren’t the same thing.”
“Are you betrothed, then?”
“No.”
“Engaged?”
Again, he would show this resistance to all things concerning Mayfair society. His gaze shifted to somewhere over her shoulder and his jaw clenched.
“Are you… in love?” She nearly whispered. Because he could be in love with someone who was totally inappropriate. That would explain his reluctance.
But she couldn’t welcome the notion. Not after wanting him to kiss her.
Caroline suddenly, inexplicably, resented this faceless woman whom he couldn’t marry.
“I am not in love.” He glanced over his shoulder, looking exasperated.
“Oh,” she said. “You are waiting to meet the perfect woman.”
“There is no perfect woman.” He turned around. “I wouldn’t marry her if there was.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know why we’re having this conversation.”
“I want to help you with the Gazette tonight.”
“And do I, but as my society writer, I need to you to cover the Chaswick ball tonight.”
Touché.
“Very well.”
But the prospect of dressing up only to be laughed at and ignored, all while smiling and pretending none of it bothered her, suddenly struck with the force of an anvil.
“I hate it. I hate all of it.” She pinched her mouth together, frustrated to have lost the freedoms she’d been allowed back in Willowbrook Springs. It wasn’t the same for men. They did whatever they wanted while ladies were expected to knit or embroider at home. It was the men who shaped the world around them. Her eye twitched.
“The ridiculous rules, the judgmental stares. I’d be happy to never attend another ton event in my life. I want…”
Her chest expanded as she processed this unsettling mixture of exasperation and yearning. She was suddenly tired, so terribly tired of battling against a world that demanded conformity.
“I want to do something meaningful,” she finished.
She felt his hand on her back—circling—warm and comforting and so very unexpected. As were his next words.
“Mayfair can be a stifling, merciless beast, Caroline. But they’ll forget, I promise.”
“What if they don’t? How can I expect people to forget my come-out when even I can’t? What if my mother expects me to return year after year until…” She didn’t finish because she couldn’t bear the thought of it.
He sat silently for nearly a full minute. “Was it really that bad? You didn’t land on the queen, did you? Or knock over a cake?”
“I simply made a cake of myself.” Caroline huffed, sending her bangs flying.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “From what my mother says, your stockings protected your modesty—mostly—even if half of London now knows you’re partial to lavender.” The half-smile grew to a full one. His lips were a dusty pink. They were plump, but not too plump for a man, and aside from a few crooked incisors, his teeth lined up in a near-perfect white row.
