Of course.
He was not as obvious about his interest as other gentlemen were. He knew how to be discreet. However, Dara recognized the signs. She’d witnessed them before. Except this time, she experienced a pang of what might be called jealousy. It was all so easy for Elise and Gwendolyn, but she had never begrudged them until now.
And then she chided herself for the uncharitable thought.
She moved to catch up with her sisters when she realized they had stopped to converse with an older, rather horse-faced woman whom Dara recognized immediately—Lady Whitby. She was one of the most important political hostesses in London. She held weekly salons where only heavy subjects were discussed.
Dara could barely stifle her horror. All thoughts of the handsome stranger fled her mind. She and her sisters had met Lady Whitby at their lending library. They had all found her engaging—however, the Park was not the place for the sort of conversation her ladyship enjoyed. It would not serve the Lanscarrs to be seen as bluestockings, the name given to women who had learned tastes. Dara’s research had impressed upon her that men looking for wives did not value intelligence. Possible husbands shied away from women with strong opinions, which was the reason debutantes were encouraged to be demure.
It was true that Dara and her sisters did have strong opinions.Bluestockingmight be a good sobriquet for them. Except, Dara would prefer this not be open knowledge until after they had married their dukes.
With that in mind, she went charging forward to rescue her sisters.
Elise smiled as she approached as if happy to see her. “Dara, you remember Lady Whitby.”
“That I do,” Dara said, giving a small curtsy. “My lady.”
“My pleasure, Miss Lanscarr. I was telling your sisters they should join us at one of my salons.”
“We would love to attend,” Elise said with enthusiasm.
“You are kind to include us,” Gwendolyn echoed.
Dara’s smile froze on her face. Attending would be husband-hunting suicide. But how to refuse such an offer?
And then a man with the honeyed tones of Ireland in his voice said from behind Dara, “Good afternoon, Lady Whitby. I pray I’m not interrupting something.”
Dara turned, curious, and then almost choked on her shock.It was him.The gentleman.And he was so close to her, she caught the warm scent of his shaving soap.
“Mr. Brogan, always good to see you,” Lady Whitby said with genuine warmth. “Here, have you made the acquaintance of the Misses Lanscarr? They are your countrywomen. Miss Lanscarr,” she addressed Gwendolyn, the oldest, as she should, “I give you Mr. Michael Brogan. He is a member of Parliament for your country.”
“Are you now?” Gwendolyn said with smiling interest. “From what county, sir?”
“It is my pleasure to be from Carlow,” he said with a bow that was neither foppish nor obsequious. “And you and your sisters, Miss Lanscarr?”
“We’re Wicklowians,” Elise announced, jumping in with the eagerness of a green colt—a sign she was interested in this gentleman. She beamed a smile at Mr. Brogan, one that had knocked many a man off his game, and he was no exception.
He smiled back as if she were the only person in the world, and in that moment, Dara realized envy could turn to hate if she wasn’t careful. Of course, it wasn’t Elise and Gwendolyn’s fault that they captured male attention. Men were superficial.
It was just that Dara wished she had their power, because she knew about Mr. Brogan. She’d read about him in her collection of newspapers. He was an attorney who had been appointed to Parliament for the Carlow seat upon the untimely death of the previous occupant. He had often been mentioned for his “firebrand” rhetoric and his willingness to take up any cause he found just. He was considered a leader among the liberal faction of the Whigs and was expected to handily win his election to the seat next year. He championed the merchant classes, the weavers, and others who were part of a “middling sort,” those who were not landowners but manufactured, traded, and built.
He was the sort of man she could admire.
And he wasn’t payinganyattention to her.
Apparently, Mr. Brogan was a frequent visitor to Lady Whitby’s weekly salons. Elise had many questions to ask. He edged closer to her while not actually cutting Dara out of their small circle, and yet she felt excluded all the same.
Dara listened to the conversation with half an ear so she would know when to smile and nod. After all, manners were all she had.
But inside, she felt as if something was breaking. A hope? A fantasy? Her own silliness at being so quickly infatuated? After all, she was a woman of good breeding and taste, even if she did notice that there was blue in the depths of his gray eyes and that the rims were dark, almost black. Eyes like she’d never seen before. Unique, intense... with a spark of interest whenever he glanced at Elise.
He was unsuitable, Dara tried to convince herself, even for Elise. Dara was certain he stood politically against anythinga dukewould support. In fact, most dukes would consider him an enemy, which didn’t bode well for women who wished to be duchesses.
Besides, he was Irish. She hadn’t come to London for an Irishman—
Mr. Brogan laughed at something Lady Whitby had said. Elise and Gwendolyn joined in. Even Molly, standing discreetly off to the side, chuckled.
Dara had been so busy stewing, she hadn’t heard it. And she wished she had. She wanted to hang on his every word, to look at him with the devotion Elise was showing.
