“I suppose I am not well-versed in all the stories of Camelot,” he replied. “I was simply thinking of all the accounts of her beauty. I can say without a doubt, there is no other who can rival yours.”
Rosanna held back a sigh. Why did men insist on saying such things? Not that she minded the compliment, but why was it always couched in a comparison? Her heart broke for all the ladies—like her dear Prudence—who had too often been on the poor end of such a statement. Could they not simply flatter without implicitly denigrating others? It was not enough that she was appealing to him; she must be more appealing than anyone else.
The music struck up, and the dancers moved about their figures, weaving between their circle of eight.
“I have often longed for the opportunity to stand up with you,” said Mr. Woodhouse, though Rosanna could swear that they had danced before. “They say there is no finer dancer in all of Greater Edgerton.”
Rosanna held back a sigh and quickly scoured her thoughts for something to redirect this conversation before it became little more than a litany of all her various features.
“I have been thinking that I might try my hand at organizing a charity concert,” said Rosanna, and Mr. Woodhouse stared at her as though she had been speaking Greek.
“That is industrious of you,” he replied, though his tone was devoid of any genuine interest.
“It has been some time since anyone has undertaken such a large endeavor,” she added. “And I thought it high time I try my hand at it. However, I have never organized anything on such a grand scale, and I fear I haven’t the skill to do it justice.”
“Nonsense,” he replied. “I imagine you will be as perfect at it as you are at everything else.”
Rosanna fought not to frown, and she couldn’t help but recall Mr. Malcolm’s summary of her efforts with the charity baskets. His words had been supportive, to be certain, but they hadn’t inflated her abilities. Rosanna Leigh was not perfect. Far from it. And pretending otherwise was not helpful.
As much as she longed to disagree with Mr. Woodhouse’s statement, it was certain to do no good. It never did.
Holding back another sigh, she returned to the subject at hand. “I was thinking I might enlist your mother to aid me.”
She paused, waiting to see what he would say in response, but the gentleman merely moved about the dance without seeming to notice.
“Do you think she would accept?” asked Rosanna.
Mr. Woodhouse frowned. “The logic is sound, but you would have to ask her. I know she enjoys parties, balls, and the like.”
His tone was so dismissive, and Rosanna frowned for a brief moment, though she forced her expression back to something more pleasant when she met the eyes of the lady opposite as Rosanna circled her. When she returned to her previous place, and they had a moment, Rosanna glanced at Mr. Woodhouse.
“So much of our charity efforts have been on a smaller scale—food baskets and clothing donations—but if I could create a grand event that drew in a large crowd, we might raise far more funds than we could ever do with our piecemeal approach. This isn’t merely a bit of frivolity. This would do good for our town and its people.”
Mr. Woodhouse nodded, though he gave her a vague smile. One she knew all too well. The menfolk were quite willing to speak at length about her beauty and accomplishments, but the moment she broached an actual conversation, they grew bored.
“I just purchased the most beautiful mare, Miss Leigh. She is a picture.”
Thank the heavens that the dance drew her around the others in the circle once more, allowing Rosanna some freedom from her partner as he droned on about his horse, his hounds, and how much he longed for a bit of good sport as the autumnal hunting season was fast approaching.
The conversation (or monologue, rather) was one she’d heard so many times before that Rosanna could nearly predict what Mr. Woodhouse would say next. Bloodlines of his horse. Bloodlines of his dogs. The speed and height at which his mare could jump. All the many birds he’d bagged. It was as though the menfolk were applying for a position as her gamekeeper rather than her husband.
But then, it was little wonder when they didn’t truly wish to speak with her. To her, certainly, but not anything resembling a proper conversation. Mr. Woodhouse was just another in a long line of men who viewed securing her for a set as a mark of their superiority and a reason to strut and preen about—bagging her like one of their birds rather than desiring her company in any real fashion.
His attention was so fully on himself that he didn’t notice when Rosanna stopped giving him even the polite sounds and nods that showed she was listening.
As she circled the lady opposite, Rosanna whispered a quick, “I adore your gown. That is such a becoming shade, Miss Culley.”
The lady straightened and stared at her. “Thank you, Miss Leigh.”
“If the weather is fine, I shall ride out tomorrow. I would be the envy of the town if you were to accompany me,” said Mr. Woodhouse.
Rosanna held back a scoff. Far too many gentlemen thought simply making such a statement would elicit swoons, but the incomplete invitation employed not a single question mark, and thus ought to be disregarded as nothing but a vague declaration. One she was quite happy to ignore.
Frowning to herself once more, she considered just how often such attentions might’ve turned her head once upon a time. Not that Rosanna had ever tolerated tepid sentiments, but how often had she been placated by a few compliments?
For all that she’d believed herself to possess a strong sense of worth, one of the grand truths that had come to light in the past year was just how much Rosanna’s confidence was tied to her looks. If a gentleman plied her with enough adoration, she was quite willing to overlook other deficiencies. Mr. Courtney was quite a clear sign of that. Though she had come to her senses in time, he had been a horrid man in so many ways, yet a few well placed compliments and a bit of wicked flirtation, and Rosanna had been all but ready to accept his suit.
Even now, she noted all of the male gazes turned in her direction. Though the others in their group were polite enough to focus the majority of their attention on their partners, Rosanna saw more than a few of those gazes following her as she moved about the steps, eyes alight with admiration. And if not for the tight rein she held on her heart, it would have soared at the realization, reveling in the knowledge that she was coveted. Desired.
