First Season / Bride to Be by Jane Ashford Page A

Norbury came up to claim her hand. She hadn’t seen him arrive.
    They moved onto the floor as the music began, and Norbury pulled her into a quick turn, making her very aware of the strength of his arm around her waist and the closeness of his body to hers. She felt small beside him, irresistibly guided by his whim. It was a new sensation, and uncertainty mixed with pleasure as they moved around the ballroom. Sir Charles remained an enigma to her. The men in her life had been very different—her father, a genial, uncomplicated creature extremely fond of his only daughter; Ralph, a bluff and hearty squire, pleased to have found such a wife; Christopher, a reliable, amusing friend. Norbury was none of these things, except perhaps amusing. In his polished looks, his assured, almost arrogant manner, and in the feeling of trembling excitement he engendered in her, he was unique in Anabel’s life. She found him fascinating.
    Norbury’s thoughts were similar as they turned in the waltz and chatted. He had never encountered a woman precisely like Anabel. Most of those he knew had been schooled for years in the rituals of the haut ton , and the one or two countrywomen he had met had shown none of Anabel’s easy understanding or quick wit. She was a curious mixture of naïveté and wisdom, and very pretty besides. He had had serious reservations about continuing his acquaintance with her when he discovered the existence of three tiresome children and their attendants. But Anabel’s charm on their drive together had slowly disarmed his doubts. He enjoyed her company, he realized, more than that of any other female he could name, including his current inamorata. This was an odd circumstance, and one he wished to explore.
    â€œIsn’t that the lady you pointed out to me in the park?” asked Anabel then.
    â€œWhich?”
    â€œThere, in the puce satin. Did you not say that she has four daughters out at once?”
    â€œI did indeed. The Marsden ensemble, each uglier than the next. There they are, sitting in a row on that blue sofa.”
    â€œWhere? Oh.”
    â€œRemarkably like a row of gargoyles on a cathedral porch, aren’t they? Just as avaricious and terrifying.”
    â€œHow can you?” But she couldn’t help but laugh. There was something grotesque in the Marsden sisters’ expressions.
    â€œEasily. I have endured too many pretensions and too much fustian to be impressed by my fellow man any longer. Most of the people here, Lady Wyndham, are masterpieces of falsity and pettiness.”
    â€œWell, at least they are good at it, then.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œIf they are masterpieces, they must do it very well. That’s something.” She smiled up at him.
    Sir Charles laughed. “Indeed, we certainly have the best of everything in London—the most single-minded greed, the greatest hypocrisy, the most refined cruelty.”
    â€œYou are very severe.”
    â€œI have learned to be, watching this spectacle through the years.” He gestured around them.
    Anabel looked thoughtful. “I suppose you are very fond of Byron’s poetry?”
    â€œWhat?” Sir Charles was startled.
    â€œAre you not? I said so only because that sounded very like some of it I have read.” She didn’t smile this time, but her eyes danced.
    Her partner was speechless for several moments, then he laughed again. “You are astonishing,” he said. “I don’t believe anyone has ever spoken to me so.”
    â€œI suppose they are afraid of you.”
    â€œAfraid?”
    â€œKnowing your low opinion of mankind. I am quite terrified myself. What will you say of me during the next set?”
    He gazed down at her, shaking his head. “Nothing! I should not dare, for fear your wit would grow even sharper. Where, my dear Lady Wyndham, did you learn it?”
    She shrugged, smiling again, and their eyes held as he spun her in