Page 5 of The Luckiest Lady in London

The Ideal Gentleman, in the flesh. To say that he would make an excellent husband for Louisa was analogous to declaring that a Thoroughbred stallion qualified as a four-legged beast of burden. His income was in excess of two hundred thousand pounds a year. In addition to that staggering wealth, he possessed good looks, charisma, athleticism, and tact. Not to mention that his character was so far above reproach that reproach would need a telescope to observe his universally lauded conduct.

Prince Charming, absolutely. The Holy Grail, almost.

Louisa had not been in a particular hurry to meet the marquess—a sensible woman who could afford only a gig did not spend her days dreaming of barouches. But now that Lord Wrenworth was in her vicinity, she was not going to pass on a detailed survey of this paragon of masculine virtues.

She would, however, be discreet about it. Lowering her eyes, she started from his shoes.

They had seen at least two Seasons, possibly three. Yet they did not appear worn, only comfortable. The leather, shined and buffed to a high sheen, was as supple and luxurious as a courtesan’s caress.

In contrast, Mr. Pitt’s spanking-new evening pumps looked as if they pinched his toes and chafed the backs of his ankles.

Her gaze traveled up Lord Wrenworth’s expertly pressed trousers to the flute of champagne at his side, dangling from his fingers. Many of the guests at the ball had such crystalware in their hands—Lady Tenwhestle, for one, held hers decorously before her person; Mr. Drummond, for another, idly turned his round and round. Lord Wrenworth’s champagne glass, however, gave the impression that it had leaped off a table of its own will into his hand, because it would never fit better elsewhere, or emanate a quarter so much ease and aplomb.

On that same hand he wore a signet ring, a coat of arms engraved upon a crest of deep, rich carnelian. The white cuff of his shirt extended a perfect quarter inch beyond the dark sleeve of his evening jacket. The cuff links were simple gold studs—or perhaps not so simple studs, for she could see lines and patterns, too fine for her to make out the design from where she stood.

She was stalling, she realized, lingering in the same spot because she was…not afraid, exactly, but rather apprehensive about looking higher. But really, what could he possibly do to a woman as practical as herself? Her soul was devoid of romantic yearnings; if she didn’t need a husband she would have happily embraced spinsterhood.

All at once she lifted her gaze—she might as well get it over with. She was presented with a head of thick black hair and an aristocratic profile. Then, as if sensing her attention, he turned to her.

A pox on everyone who had ever told her that The Ideal Gentleman was handsome. He was not handsome—he was extravagantly gorgeous. One look into his serene yet hypnotic green eyes, and all the romantic yearnings she had never before experienced struck her at once, like a bullet to the heart.

“Miss Cantwell,” said Mr. Drummond, “allow me to present my esteemed friend the Marquess of Wrenworth.”

Lord Wrenworth bowed slightly, his motion fluid, his manners commendable—an open amiability with no arrogance or condescension. “Enchanted, Miss Cantwell.”

The not-quite-smile of his lips threatened to turn her into a gelatinous mass, like a clump of beached sea nettles. How could she defend against such perfection? How could anyone defend against such perfection?

She must. She had a task here in London. She could not trail Lord Wrenworth all about town in the wretched hope that he would notice her. She had no doubt he would, perceptive man that he must be, and he would treat her lunacy with great kindness, sparing her any embarrassment if at all he could, while gently steering her toward less unobtainable gentlemen, thoughtfully reminding her that much depended upon a judicious marriage on her part.

But how could she continue? She was only mildly fraudulent, not profligately so. She could not pursue Lord Firth or Mr. Pitt while her heart burned for someone else, while she compared them to the peerless Lord Wrenworth and found them woefully inadequate at every turn.

“My lord Wrenworth,” she croaked, sinking into a curtsy.

As she straightened, their eyes met again. She managed a few meaningless words of small talk—Yes, I am enjoying my first Season. Alas, my family cannot be here with me. No, I do not find London’s air more noxious than I have been told to expect—heroically holding herself upright, while her spine liquefied vertebra by vertebra.

It was difficult to draw breath. Her heart palpitated in both pleasure and panic. And she flushed furiously, too much heat pulsing through her veins for her to control or disguise.

A heartbeat later, however, she was cold.

She could not say how she knew it, Lord Wrenworth having been nothing but flawlessly courteous. All the same, she was suddenly dead certain that on the inside, he found her patently ridiculous, perhaps even laughable.

Introductions completed, Mr. Drummond began to talk about himself again. Lord Wrenworth appeared content to let his friend garner all the limelight and was soon engaged in conversation with Lady Tenwhestle, Lady Balfour’s daughter and Louisa’s chaperone for the evening.

So civil, so gracious, so gentlemanly—yet Louisa could not shake off the pins-and-needles sensation of his secret, if slight and casual, contempt, as if he viewed her as a toad trying to kiss a prince. And not the sort of toad who was in fact a cursed princess, but just a plain, warty amphibian who didn’t know any better.

She had no idea it was possible to be this mortified when there was no public humiliation involved. Or that it was possible to be this crushed when she ought to be thrilled that she would not, in the end, abandon her fortune hunting to stalk Lord Wrenworth all over London.

So much for her long-delayed romantic awakening, such a starburst of emotions and such a lot of nothing.

She fluttered her fan, if rather too vigorously, and pretended to listen to Mr. Drummond.

Lord Wrenworth did not speak to her again and barely looked in her direction. But as the minutes wore on, she grew more and more acutely aware of his observation, of everyone about her and of herself in particular.

Had she realized this earlier, she would have been in a state of ferment, turning herself inside out with dizzying conjectures of his possible interest. But now she understood that his scrutiny was wholly clinical; he was not curious at all about her, except perhaps as an exercise to keep his mind sharp.

And by this impersonal inspection, he made her feel as if she wore her bust improver on the outside of her bodice for the world to witness. As if he had already seen through her entire facade, from her lack of true beauty to her fundamentally scheming ways.

Had she gone mad? It had to be madness on her part to have fabricated this hysterical response to a cordial greeting followed by little else. No one else seemed to share her disquiet. The gentlemen, Mr. Pitt included, were delighted with Lord Wrenworth in their midst. Lady Tenwhestle positively glowed.