PROLOGUE #2
From her father she had inherited copious freckles, a head for mathematics and a near-violent aversion to large parties.
From her mother, however, she had inherited an enormous fortune, and it was this latter legacy that had secured Hetty’s desirability on the marriage mart.
Hetty might not feel wholly comfortable in her new gowns, or know what to say to the gentlemen of assorted age and ancestry who called on her each afternoon – but still they came. At least for now.
‘I can barely hold a conversation with a single one of them.’
Arthur did not try to argue. He had borne witness to enough morning visits with Hetty – flame-red and tongue-tied – to know the truth of this statement.
The mere presence of a stranger was enough to overpower her spirits: the twinkle of mischief would vanish from her eyes, the smile from her face, and – it seemed – all conversation from her head.
It was, Arthur supposed, the natural result of a childhood spent in near-seclusion with only dusty academics for company.
Still, he had enough confidence in the abilities of his mother – whose potent charm would, surely, prove infectious – to be able to say, in a rallying tone: ‘It is just a matter of practice! You never have trouble speaking to me.’
Hetty nodded her agreement, though privately she felt this had more to do with Arthur than it had with her. He had such a way of making anyone feel at ease, from the most timorous young misses to the grumpiest old gentlemen.
‘You will have your first marriage proposal within the month, I guarantee it!’
Hetty smiled. It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that she had already received her first marriage proposal – as children, she and Arthur had promised themselves to each other in the second-best treehouse at Belcourt – but Arthur spoke again before she could do so.
‘Just don’t fall prey to some fortune hunter – or, worse, a dullard!’ he said. ‘I warn you, I should do what I could to prevent that, Hetty!’
Hetty cast him a quick look. Did he mean the sentiment in a brotherly fashion or …
‘Arthur—’ she began, so impulsively that she did not even herself know where the sentence would end, except—
‘She came,’ interrupted Arthur. ‘I did not think she would.’
He was looking over her shoulder again. Hetty followed his eyes to the doorway to the ballroom, where Mrs Ridley was standing, poised and beautiful in shimmering green silk.
A dashing widow and a famous flirt, Mrs Ridley was just the sort of lady Arthur would find irresistible: not merely beautiful, but quick-witted too, and possessing a certain forcefulness of character that earned the respect of her suitors, not just the admiration.
Hetty had only to lay eyes upon her to feel a surge of envy that almost took her breath away.
‘Is she your new dasher?’ Hetty wondered, with commendable evenness. ‘Now that you do not have your opera singer?’
Arthur started, eyes wheeling away from Mrs Ridley for the first time. ‘How do you know about my opera singer?’
‘You told me,’ Hetty reminded him.
‘Oh – well.’ Arthur grimaced. ‘That was ill done of me. I ought to begin minding my tongue now that you are a lady grown.’
‘I wish you won’t.’ For was not that all she had? Mrs Ridley and her like could only hope to capture his affections for a Season. Hetty was Arthur’s confidante, a far more permanent position.
Arthur did not appear to be listening. ‘Allow me to return you to Mama.’
The second dance he had promised her was apparently forgotten, but Hetty did not protest as Arthur extended an arm.
His eyes were still fixed on Mrs Ridley.
Hetty looked down at her own dress, which now seemed dreadfully childish compared to the simple, stunning elegance of Mrs Ridley.
What on earth had she been thinking, asking for the silver roses?
Such ornamentation belonged to the nursery – she might as well have embroidered little ducklings on herself.
Though her stomach felt leaden, Hetty smiled and nodded to passers-by as Arthur wound his way expertly through the crowd to where Lady Allerton was stationed, fanning herself amongst a flock of admiring gentlemen.
A famed beauty in her youth, Lady Allerton had grown no less bewitching with her accumulation of years – and no less fond of admiration.
‘Will you be all right if I leave you?’ Arthur asked Hetty, unhooking his arm. ‘Don’t let anyone corral you into a dance you don’t wish for – recollect that you could have anyone you want.’
‘Can I?’ Hetty said rather wistfully, but he had already slipped away through the crowd – with nary a single glance back at her as he made his way to Mrs Ridley’s side.
She felt her eyes began to smart but forced the tears ruthlessly back down.
This was good. Indeed, she should be grateful to Mrs Ridley; her interruption could not have been timelier, for Hetty had been on the point of uttering something very foolish.
She could not quite believe she had been so idiotic, almost betraying her feelings in such a way – over nothing.
For she had long known the truth. Arthur would never look at her in the same way he did someone such as Mrs Ridley – never.
There was not the smallest point in hoping otherwise.