Miss Bentworth said, “It’s true, he is too old for me. But if Sir Harry doesn’t wish to wed me, I fear that I shall have no other choice in the matter. My mama is strong-willed, you know. My papa quakes in his boots whenever she speaks. And there are my sisters, of course. All three of them. She’s even pushing me to marry before the Season begins, so she may save money, which is silly, since my father’s made of money.”
“Nonsense, Miss Bentworth, everyone has choices. You just must have some resolve.”
Miss Bentworth thought privately that the homely Miss Rolland could well afford to state her mind and have all the resolve in the world, for she couldn’t imagine any gentleman threatening to do away with himself if she didn’t wed him. How could Miss Rolland possibly understand?
Hetty misunderstood Miss Bentworth’s silence, and began to believe her spiritless. She knew she shouldn’t be meddling, but someone had to do something about these two. “As I said, Miss Bentworth, it just takes a bit of resolve, and a sound strategy. Listen and tell me what you think.”
Miss Bentworth obligingly bent her dark head close to the pea green cap. Hetty became so engrossed in weaving her plot and in gaining Miss Bentworth’s agreement, that she was unaware of Lord Oberlon’s arrival. Thus, when the sound of his deep rich voice came to her ears, not ten feet away from her, she jumped, the remainder of her words dead on her tongue.
Miss Bentworth was too involved in Miss Rolland’s daring plan to notice anything amiss. When Hetty grabbed her arm and pulled her into a corner, she believed merely that Miss Rolland had no wish to be overheard. It was some five minutes later when the orchestra struck up a lively country dance and two gentlemen were purposefully approaching her to secure the dance, that Miss Bentworth finally agreed. “You’re certain Lord Monteith will agree, Miss Rolland?” she asked yet again.
“Yes, I am. He’ll call on you tomorrow, Miss Bentworth. Remember, you mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”
Hetty slipped even further into the corner, Miss Bentworth and her trial with Sir Harry for the moment forgotten, her eyes upon Lord Oberlon. He was laughing easily with Miss Caroline Langley. She glanced at a clock, saw that it was just after ten o’clock and realized with a sinking in the pit of her stomach that it would be quite rude for her to depart so early in the evening. She thought about a sudden, painful headache. Yes, that just might do it. So busy was she in planning her migraine that a light touch on her sleeve made her whirl about in consternation and stumble into a table.
“Did I frighten you, Miss Rolland?” Jason Cavander, quite eager to tease the spirited, outspoken young lady whose company the previous evening at the Ranleaghs’ masquerade ball he’d found stimulating, actually more than stimulating. He realized he couldn’t wait to see her again. But then she whipped about and his horrified eyes took in the hideous green cap, the squinting eyes behind wire spectacles, and the most ill-fitting gown he had ever seen in his life.
“You’re Miss Henrietta Rolland?” he asked slowly, praying that this daunting vision gaping stupidly at him was some errant relative of Lady Melberry.
Hetty, after her initial shock, was well aware of the effect of her appearance upon him. Without thought, she snapped with all the natural arrogance in her character, “Certainly I’m Henrietta Rolland, sir. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending upon one’s perceptions, I find I’m not acquainted with you. Nor do you look the sort of gentleman who would interest me in the least. Do feel free to take your leave.”
She instantly regretted her rudeness, for the marquess was staring at her, his dark eyes puzzled and one black brow lifted in confusion.
“I believe,” he said even more slowly, “yes, I’m quite certain we danced together at the Ranleaghs’ masquerade ball last evening, Miss Rolland. My aunt, Lady Melberry, pointed you out to me but a few moments ago.”
“Did we really dance, sir? Odd, but I don’t remember you at all.”