Meg opened her mouth to retort, but Lucy continued. “How in heaven’s name do you expect anything to change this Season? If you want different results, you must do things differently.”
Meg opened her mouth yet again, and Lucy interrupted again. “Just try it once. One gown. One time. One ball. See if anything is different. I promise you, your circumstances will change.”
The duchess was making sense. Aloanwouldn’t beso horrible. Meg’s resolution began to crumble. How perfectly lovely it would be to wear a new gown. She eyed Sarah. “What do you think?”
Sarah squeezed Meg’s hand. “I think you’ve got nothing to lose by trying. Let us make you into a princess, Meggie. You’re certain to attract a gentleman’s attention.”
Behind Sarah’s head, Lucy gave Meg a knowing smile. “Hopefully, therightgentleman.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Keep your eye on the receiving line. Your future wife may appear at any moment.”
Hart nearly rolled his eyes at his sister’s statement. If he could have, he would have whistled and stuck his hands in his pockets. That was how uninterested he was at the Hodges’ ball. Boring. That’s what thistonevent business was. Excruciatingly boring and here he was… trapped.
He’d been to the refreshment table and been chased out of Lord Hodge’s study by his own father who scolded him and informed him he wasn’t about to find his future countess in thestudyof all places. He’d even taken a stroll through the Hodges’ prizewinning gardens. None of it had been the least interesting.
There was not nearly enough brandy here and apparently, according to Sarah,tonhostesses looked askance at guests who downed glass after glass of liquor. Who knew? Hart had surrendered to his sister, asking Sarahto point out the most eligible, pleasant, least-concerned-with-wealth-and-titles ladies of her acquaintance. Sarah had done just that, but Hart was still… bored.
Lady Carina Hardwater was too quiet. In the time he’d spent in her company, nearly half an hour, she’d uttered perhaps three words and all three were related to the weather. On the other hand, Miss Banks talkedfartoo much about topicsfartoo uninteresting. In the mere quarter of an hour he’d spent inheresteemed company, he’d learned all about a riding accident she’d experienced as a child, her fondness for hot chocolate, and the fact that she preferred the color yellow above all others. Meanwhile, Lady Isabella Jones had a decided frown upon her face, clearly indicating to Hart that she was wholly uninterested in his company. They hadn’t spent even five minutes in each other’s company before she feigned an attack of the nerves, turned on her heel, and nearly galloped off to her mother’s side, peeping at him from behind her fan every once in a while as if he were an ogre.
Less than three hours into his first ball of the Season, Hart quickly realized that finding a bride wouldnotbe as simple a task as he’d hoped.
He groaned and took another halfhearted glance around the room. Perhaps there was something the matter with him. Perhaps he didn’t possess the same qualities other gentlemen did. Perhaps the social custom of finding a wife was something at which he would fail. A vision of Annabelle flashed through his mind. Annabelle had just made her debut six years ago when she’d attempted to trap him into marriage. At the age of three and twenty, his father had ordered him to find a wife. When Hart hadn’t taken any steps to do so, his father had threatenedto suspend his allowance. Like a fool, Hart had actually believed the old man. The threat had sent him into a round of attendingtonballs.
He enjoyed the company of women. Always had. The business of finding a wife couldn’t bethatawful. His father had spent most of Hart’s teenage years warning him about the consequences of choosing the wrong bride. Hart was prepared to make a good decision. Then he met Annabelle.
She was gorgeous. Blond, blue-eyed, sweet, shy. She’d batted her eyelashes and laughed at all his jokes. He’d been smitten, no doubt about it. He’d taken her riding in the park. He’d introduced her to his parents. He certainly hadcontemplatedmarriage, but something about her kept him from offering. Day after day he put it off, despite his father’s increased frustration. It had been the best decision Hart had ever made.
He shuddered. Looking back, Annabelle did remind him of his mother: cold, calculating, and manipulative. The same woman who’d been willing to take Sarah back after her scandalous journey to Scotland, and lied to her betrothed about where she’d been. His mother had no compunction when it came to securing the most advantageous match for herself or her offspring.
After more than a month went by with no proposal, Annabelle had turned calculating. At a party, she’d begged Hart to take her out to the gardens. Once outside, she’d convinced him to take her deep into the maze grove. When he’d reluctantly complied, her closest friend had just happened to come upon them, threatening to sound the alarm and tell everyone they’d been caught in a compromising position. Neither girl had been a good enough actress to accomplish their plot,however, and he’d told them both that if they insisted upon continuing with their scheme, Annabelle would be ruined and he would not stand up for her. Thank God she’d believed him.
It made him nauseated to think about it. Annabelle’s trap sounded jarringly close to the horror story his father told him about how his mother came to be the countess. After coming so close to marrying the exact wrong woman for the exact wrong reasons, Hart had promised himself never to make that same mistake again. He’d called his father’s bluff, using the money he won racing horses to supplement his allowance until his father had relented in disgust and reinstated it. Meanwhile, Hart guarded both his heart and his company.
He scanned the ballroom. Ladies in pastel ball gowns fluttered their fans in front of their faces while gentlemen in peacock-like attire strutted around in front of them. The infamous London Marriage Mart. Why was this so difficult? So fraught with peril? It shouldn’t be. It should be simple, easy, natural even. Was that how it had been with Sarah and Berkeley?
He’d never heard the details of what had happened when Berkeley found Sarah living in his hunting lodge in Scotland. They clearly adored each other. Though he’d never admit it aloud, Hart wanted that.
He’d never had a problem garnering the attention of ladies, but not the kind he would wish to marry. Until recently he’d been engaged in a pleasant affair with a tempting widow.
Lady Maria Tempest was the exact sort of woman he’d gravitated toward since the debacle with Annabelle. Jaded, knowledgeable, decadent, confident, Maria liked to give and receive pleasure with no strings attached. Ithad been Maria, he believed, who’d sent him the note the night before Sarah’s wedding. At first he’d been horrified, worried that perhaps Meg Timmons would cry and run off, causing an incident that would result in an attempt to wring a proposal out of him, yet again.
In that case, Hart most likely would have had no choice but to do the right thing and offer for her. He’d been the one to grab her, pull her into his arms, and passionately kiss her, after all. But it turned out, unlike Annabelle, Meg was a capital sort of girl. She had quickly made it clear that she held him in no way responsible for the mistake, which was sporting of her, given the fact that she had been the one to send him a message asking him to meet in a clandestine location. In hindsight, it had been wise of the girl, given that of all the young women in London, Meg Timmons would be the verylastone he might marry.
He’d admitted to himself later, however, that the kiss they’d shared in the gardens had been nothing less than… surprising. Hot, passionate, full of longing. He’d looked twice when he’d realized he’d been kissing Meg and not Maria. Try as he might, he’d been unable to forget the kiss.
Hart rubbed his forehead, dispelling all thoughts of his sister’s closest friend. The fact remained that he was in need of a wife. In want of one, actually, and this particular ball on this particular night was sorely lacking in eligible candidates. He stifled a yawn while his sister shook her head at him. Sarah had been the belle of the Season two years ago when she’d made her debut. She’d promptly received an offer from the Marquess of Branford and then run off to Scotland to hide from that same offer, which was where she’d, ahem,metBerkeley. Noteveryone could be so fortunate as to literally stumble upon (her chaperone had broken her ankle in the stumble) true love.
“You’re not even trying,” Sarah scolded. Her hands were planted on her hips. Her slipper tapped the marble floor.
“Yes I am,” Hart replied, trying and failing to stifle a second yawn. “I let Lady Isabella scowl at me for at least ten minutes. I listened to Miss Banks prattle on for what felt like days. I even—”
A commotion by the doorway caught his attention, and Hart turned to look. The Duchess of Claringdon had arrived, dressed in her signature emerald green.
Next to her stood a vision in gold. The woman’s straight blond hair was pulled atop her head. A strand of rubies encased the thin column of her throat. A lovely golden gown that reminded Hart of a Roman goddess covered her ample bosom, then fell down her slim body, sparkling like a waterfall with the sun shot through it. From so far away, Hart couldn’t make out the color of her eyes, but they glowed with mirth as she laughed at something the duchess said. He couldn’t take his gaze off her. She seemedvaguelyfamiliar. He elbowed Sarah and nodded toward the door.
“Who is that?”
