accost a crony she had not yet seen that Season. After a brief hug of greeting, Eveleen said, *'And has your rough-hewn swain come to visit you since the Parkhurst ball?"
"My—" Arabella colored. "I do not know who you mean. Eve."
The older woman chuckled as she took Arabella's arm and strolled with her into the ballroom. It was already full, and the noise of a hundred or more chattering people echoed from the high vaulted ceiling as the heat from their bodies created a swirl of air. "Oh, Bella, how can you say that with a straight face? You are looking around the room for him this very minute, are you not? I thought perhaps he told you he was to be here."
Arabella's color deepened and she stopped her quick scan of the ballroom. "I will not pretend to misunderstand you; you mean Mr. Marcus Westhaven. I have no more interest in Mr. Westhaven than he has in me, so you can stop fishing for information."
"So little interest as that, hmm? I happen to know that he was invited tonight."
"Really? Is he here? Have you—" Arabella stopped abruptly, cursing her unruly tongue.
Eveleen fought back a smile. "No, he sent regrets, apparently. 'Unavoidable business' was the excuse, I think. He has a letter of introduction, you know—I have that from Lady Connolly herself, who is some sort of aunt or cousin to me—^which is why he is invited. Some regimental captain from the Canadas, very well connected, etcetera, begs Lady Connolly to 'be kind to him.' "
So that explained his forays into the upper echelons of society, Arabella thought, with disappointment. He must have asked all of his contacts in the regiment for letters to people they knew in London. She realized that she had been cherishing secret hopes that he would prove to be the long-lost scion of some noble house, but that was clearly ridiculous, given his poverty.
"Let us not talk of men tonight," Arabella said. She looked her friend over, from the jeweled headpiece of emeralds in her hair to the tips of her slippered feet. "I have missed you these last couple of days. You look marvelous in that green, Eveleen. It becomes you."
With a humorous smile, she replied, "And that lavender becomes you. Now we have canvassed clothing, what else shall we speak of?"
Arabella knew what she wanted to ask her friend, but she could not bring the subject up. She must turn her mind away from such unprofitable lines and concentrate on the business of the Season, which was to find a gentleman and marry him. Preferably not old Lord Pelimore. They took a place at the edge of the ballroom, near a magenta draped window that was open just a little to let in the still-cool spring air. The room was already hot, and before long it would be stifling from the body heat of hundreds of energetically galloping couples. The Connolly ball was well attended and would likely be called a "squeeze" the next day in the papers. That would be considered a compliment.
Sighing, Eveleen said, languidly, 'T suppose you really must marry this Season?"
"Yes. It is imperative that I find someone and attach him before too long. We . . . my mother is depending on me, Eve." Arabella smiled and nodded at a couple of young ladies who passed her, arm in arm. She scanned the crowd and saw Bessemere with his mother, the formidable Lady Haliburton, formerly an intimate of Lady Farmington. Would she have heard? Could the Farmington debacle ruin her chances with young Lord Bessemere?
And there was still Lord Conroy to be worried about. He always attended the Season; it was life and meat to him. Why was he not yet in London? Was it because of his mother's indisposition? Could she count on his continued absence? Surely not. After all, the woman would recover sometime. But even when he did come, could Arabella perhaps hope that he would be as little willing to have his private affairs bandied about society as she was, and so he would stay silent and not ruin her? It was her best hope for salvation.
"And what has your mother
"My—" Arabella colored. "I do not know who you mean. Eve."
The older woman chuckled as she took Arabella's arm and strolled with her into the ballroom. It was already full, and the noise of a hundred or more chattering people echoed from the high vaulted ceiling as the heat from their bodies created a swirl of air. "Oh, Bella, how can you say that with a straight face? You are looking around the room for him this very minute, are you not? I thought perhaps he told you he was to be here."
Arabella's color deepened and she stopped her quick scan of the ballroom. "I will not pretend to misunderstand you; you mean Mr. Marcus Westhaven. I have no more interest in Mr. Westhaven than he has in me, so you can stop fishing for information."
"So little interest as that, hmm? I happen to know that he was invited tonight."
"Really? Is he here? Have you—" Arabella stopped abruptly, cursing her unruly tongue.
Eveleen fought back a smile. "No, he sent regrets, apparently. 'Unavoidable business' was the excuse, I think. He has a letter of introduction, you know—I have that from Lady Connolly herself, who is some sort of aunt or cousin to me—^which is why he is invited. Some regimental captain from the Canadas, very well connected, etcetera, begs Lady Connolly to 'be kind to him.' "
So that explained his forays into the upper echelons of society, Arabella thought, with disappointment. He must have asked all of his contacts in the regiment for letters to people they knew in London. She realized that she had been cherishing secret hopes that he would prove to be the long-lost scion of some noble house, but that was clearly ridiculous, given his poverty.
"Let us not talk of men tonight," Arabella said. She looked her friend over, from the jeweled headpiece of emeralds in her hair to the tips of her slippered feet. "I have missed you these last couple of days. You look marvelous in that green, Eveleen. It becomes you."
With a humorous smile, she replied, "And that lavender becomes you. Now we have canvassed clothing, what else shall we speak of?"
Arabella knew what she wanted to ask her friend, but she could not bring the subject up. She must turn her mind away from such unprofitable lines and concentrate on the business of the Season, which was to find a gentleman and marry him. Preferably not old Lord Pelimore. They took a place at the edge of the ballroom, near a magenta draped window that was open just a little to let in the still-cool spring air. The room was already hot, and before long it would be stifling from the body heat of hundreds of energetically galloping couples. The Connolly ball was well attended and would likely be called a "squeeze" the next day in the papers. That would be considered a compliment.
Sighing, Eveleen said, languidly, 'T suppose you really must marry this Season?"
"Yes. It is imperative that I find someone and attach him before too long. We . . . my mother is depending on me, Eve." Arabella smiled and nodded at a couple of young ladies who passed her, arm in arm. She scanned the crowd and saw Bessemere with his mother, the formidable Lady Haliburton, formerly an intimate of Lady Farmington. Would she have heard? Could the Farmington debacle ruin her chances with young Lord Bessemere?
And there was still Lord Conroy to be worried about. He always attended the Season; it was life and meat to him. Why was he not yet in London? Was it because of his mother's indisposition? Could she count on his continued absence? Surely not. After all, the woman would recover sometime. But even when he did come, could Arabella perhaps hope that he would be as little willing to have his private affairs bandied about society as she was, and so he would stay silent and not ruin her? It was her best hope for salvation.
"And what has your mother
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