Edward knew what was coming with a dull certainty.

“Your mother and Lorraine will be there,” his grandmother said. “And you must come too, Edward. You will wish to take Lady Angeline for a drive in the park afterward if the weather is fine, as I daresay it will be. A courtship must be pursued vigorously, especially when the lady is so very eligible.”

Edward opened his mouth to explain that there was no courtship and closed it again. His mother was smiling. So was Lorraine. And Susan was tugging at one tail of his coat.

“Come on, Uncle Edward,” she said.

“Susan,” Lorraine said reproachfully, but he held up a staying hand.

“It seems that immediate action is what most ladies expect and demand,” he said. “We will go, Susan. Immediately, or as soon as you are fit for the outdoors.”

Lorraine got to her feet to fetch outdoor clothes for her daughter, who was now clinging to Edward’s hand and bouncing up and down in her eagerness.

And it struck Edward unexpectedly and for the first time ever that it might be great fun to have children of his own.

But his sense of freedom had fled all too quickly and too soon. He had not put his grandmother right on her misconception when he had had the opportunity, and somehow it seemed that it was already too late to do so.

Well, a tea, followed by a brief drive in the park, was not exactly a declaration of an intent to marry the girl, was it?

But it felt as if the noose was tightening.


THE DAY FOLLOWING Angeline’s come-out ball was really rather an exciting one even if it was somewhat anticlimactic. But, as Cousin Rosalie had explained when she left the ball at some ridiculously late hour—or early, depending upon which end one looked at it from—Angeline would need a quiet day in which to recover from all the excitement and exertion, and so would she.

Enough bouquets arrived to fill the ballroom over again if she had felt inclined, Angeline thought. But, disappointingly, there were no flowers from Lord Heyward. And no visit from him either, though she did have one from the Marquess of Exwich, who came in the afternoon to offer her marriage.

It was excruciatingly embarrassing to be forced to go down to the library, as Tresham insisted she do after he had been closeted with the marquess for all of half an hour while Angeline sat upstairs, all unsuspecting, reading one of her new library books. She had to listen to the proposal in person and refuse it in person. Tresham had flatly refused to do it for her.

She had better get used to it, he told her afterward, having the nerve to sound bored. It was likely to become a frequent occurrence until she put a stop to it by accepting one of her suitors. And he would be damned before he would gain a reputation as a tyrant by refusing the serious offers of perfectly eligible gentlemen on behalf of his sister.

She would put a stop to it when the right man came along, she told him. But she did not tell him that she already knew who the right man was. He would merely fix her with one of his looks and pass a remark of the dry old stick variety. When Cousin Rosalie had commented at the end of last evening upon the gratifying fact that only the Earl of Heyward had requested and been granted two sets with her charge, Tresham had fixed her with his stare and then spoken his mind.

“Devil take it, Rosalie,” he had said. “I hope a sister of mine can do considerably better than Heyward. Is she to yawn her way through the rest of her life? Lockjaw might set in after the first fortnight or so.”

Which he really had no right to say. Did he even know the Earl of Heyward? Besides, it was her life, was it not? No one was asking him to marry Lord Heyward.

The morning was exciting even apart from all the bouquets from last evening’s admirers—or admirers of her fortune anyway. For she went to Hookham’s Library with Maria and Martha, and all three of them took out a subscription and borrowed books, a lengthy process that involved a great deal of talking and laughing. And then they rounded the corner of one high bookcase and came face-to-face with Miss Goddard, who appeared to be making her choice of books with considerably more serious intent. But she smiled warmly at Angeline and consented to be introduced to Maria and Martha, and then, at Angeline’s suggestion, the four of them proceeded farther along the street to a tearoom, where they spent a whole hour drinking tea and talking.

Perhaps she ought not to have chosen Martha and Maria as friends, she thought ruefully during that hour as she looked from one to the other of them. Although they did not really look alike, both were small and fair and dainty and exquisitely pretty. She must look like a gypsy in contrast. Not that she had anything against gypsies. Indeed, there had been a time when she almost seriously considered running away to join a group of them who settled for a while a mile or two from Acton in their gaily painted caravans with their brightly colored clothes and their lively, toe-tapping music. But her papa would have come in hot pursuit if she had done so, and though he had never once lifted a hand to her, she was wary of provoking his wrath. His tongue was as lethal as Tresham’s was now.

Anyway, she liked her two new friends, their looks notwithstanding, and they appeared to like her. They had mulled over yesterday’s triumphs while at the library together and discussed the merits and demerits of their various dancing partners. Maria thought Lord Heyward a little on the dull side, though perfectly well bred. Angeline thought Mr. Griddles would be rather handsome if he did not appear to have twice as many teeth as he was supposed to have. Martha could talk only of Mr. Griddles, whose teeth as far as she was concerned were his finest asset, and Angeline had to admit that they were at least white.

They had shared information about how many bouquets they had received this morning. Angeline had received the most, but she was quite willing to concede—even to be the first to suggest—that the reason was that it had been her come-out ball.

Now with Miss Goddard their conversation was altogether less giddy. They talked about books. Angeline and her friends favored novels, but only if they had happy endings. They were all agreed upon that.

“I can tolerate soaking a dozen handkerchiefs while I am reading a book,” Maria said on behalf of them all, “but I absolutely cannot abide weeping at the end unless it is with happiness. What is the point of sad stories? They ought not to be allowed. Or there ought at least to be a warning on the covers, and then no one would bother reading them and getting depressed by them.”

Miss Goddard also read novels, but not often. When she did, she also preferred a happy ending provided it was a believable one and not of the happily-ever-after variety. She preferred reading that was instructional and educational, however, on a subject that made her think, that stretched her mind, that told her something interesting about life and the world that she had not known before.

She ought to have been an utter bore, Angeline thought. And she ought to be detestable for other reasons—not least the fact that she was Lord Heyward’s friend and that he called her Eunice. Her father was a Cambridge don, for heaven’s sake. She spoke quietly and with very precise diction. She never giggled, and when she smiled, it was with quiet warmth rather than with a bright sparkle.

Angeline actually liked her. And she hung upon her every word, encouraging her to talk more and more about the books she read. She would wager that Miss Goddard talked to Lord Heyward about books. It was no wonder he liked her so much.

Did he do more than like her?

Did he love her? It would not be at all surprising.

“You were very kind last evening,” she said, “to converse with Lord Windrow at the supper table and then to dance with him. He is very silly. I daresay Lord Heyward told you what happened on the road to London a few weeks ago. He was obliging enough to insist that Lord Windrow behave like a gentleman after he had started to behave more like a rake.”

Martha and Maria, both of whom knew the story, giggled.

“Kindness had nothing to do with my behavior last night,” Miss Goddard assured her. “I could see as soon as we joined you that you were perfectly capable of handling Lord Windrow’s sort of gallantry. He is silly. It is a good word to describe him. He is also mildly amusing. Must I confess that I rather enjoyed dancing with him and matching wits with him? I had only ever been able to observe rakish gentlemen from afar before last evening.”

“I have two of them for brothers,” Angeline said. “They are very exasperating. I love them to pieces.”

“Lord Ferdinand Dudley is very handsome,” Maria said with what seemed to be a barely suppressed sigh.

Miss Goddard smiled warmly.

“I have enjoyed this,” she said. “Thank you so much for including me in your outing. But I must return home now. My aunt will be wondering what has become of me.”

And that was the end of that. She left and it was time for them all to gather up their respective maids and make their way home.

“Is she a bluestocking, do you suppose?” Maria asked after Miss Goddard was well out of earshot.

“I would not be surprised,” Angeline said. “I rather like her even so.”

“But poor lady,” Martha said, “feeling obliged to read those dreadfully dull books instead of the novels from the Minerva Press.”