But now… well, a lady who’d witnessed each of her four younger sisters fall madly in love with the most unlikely gentlemen, and go on to make four implausible matches with said gentlemen, all of whom loved them madly in return— how could such a lady continue to believe that love wasn’t the key to matrimonial happiness?
Love did exist, as it turned out, and there were those who were able to take the love they’d found and turn it into happiness.
Not everyone, though. For her, love had been fleeting. It hadn’t even outlasted her first London season.
Six years had rolled by since then.
Six years.
It seemed like an insignificant amount of time when one thought of it, and sounded like it if one said it aloud, but for her, six years had been a lifetime.
Long enough to transform a girl into a young woman, and a young woman into a spinster.
It was certainly enough time for a silly, starry-eyed young lady’s every cherished hope to disappear like a wisp of smoke into a cloudless sky.
Gone, in the blink of an eye.
She couldn’t stand back and watch the same thing happen to Harriett. Anyone could see at a single glance that a match between Harriett and Lord Farthingale was out of the question. It would only lead to misery.
Harriett was tenderhearted kindness, sweetness, and light, whereas Lord Farthingale…
Wasnot. He was a gentleman of stern countenance and rigid principles— a grim, dark-tempered man who was apt to find fault with everyone and everything around him. Seeing Harriett sacrificed to such a man would be like watching a thick, dark storm cloud eclipse the sun.
What in God’s name could Lord Fairmont bethinking?
“You can imagine Harriett’s reaction to James’s choice.” Lady Fosberry heaved a sigh. “She flatly refused to even entertain the possibility of a match with Lord Farthingale. I’m afraid poor James was rather astonished by her vehemence. It’s caused quite a row between them.”
“He wouldn’t force her into the marriage, would he?” Goodness, what a dreadful thought.
“No. He cares too much for her to wish to see her unhappy, but James can be terribly stubborn about such things. Nearly as stubborn as Harriett. So, my dearest Euphemia, as you can see, we’re at quite an impasse. It won’t be an easy season, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t think there is such a thing, my lady.”
“No, perhaps not. There’s one other thing you should know, as well. Harriett is… how can I put this delicately? She hasn’t said as much to me, but I have reason to believe she’s enamored of another gentleman.”
“But that’s wonderful!” She’d feared Harriett might shy away from risking her heart again after the fiasco with Lord Wyle, but then Harriett was a much more resilient young lady than her delicate appearance would suggest. “I should think that would solve all our problems.”
If Harriett was in love with another gentleman, then surely, that was the end of it. Lord Fairmont couldn’t be so cruel as to keep her from the gentleman she loved.
“It will, if the gentleman in question can earn Lord Fairmont’s approval.”
“Surely, that won’t be a problem?”
“Er, well, I’m afraid there may be one or two tiny… that is, he’s not quite?—”
“Lady Fosberry! Halloo, Lady Fosberry!”
“What in the world?” Lady Fosberry turned at the shout, startled. It wasn’t at all the thing to bellow a lady’s name whilst parading around the Ring, particularly with so many high-strung horses about.
“My goodness! Who’s that?” Phee turned toward the voice, rising a little from her seat so she might see where the shout was coming from, but it seemed as if every member of thetonwas crowded into the Ring, and the small space was choked with carriages. “I can’t see a blessed thing.”
“Lady Fosberry! Over here! How do you do, my lady?”
The crowd parted then, and one would-be whip— a young, ginger-haired gentleman in a canary yellow coat came charging through the gap, one hand on the ribbons, and the other waving his hat over his head.
“Oh, dear.” Lady Fosberry’s face drained of color as he careened toward them. “My dear Lord Gilbert, please do take care!” she cried, trying to wave him down.
But it was all in vain. The gentleman continued to tear recklessly along in his apple green, high perch phaeton, as if utterly unaware of the impropriety of rushing about willy-nilly in the close confines of the Ring.
