None of the young ladies he was to assess for a potential mate were seated anywhere near him. Contrary to what his mother or Lady Aleksander believed, he was looking forward to meeting them. He just wished it was under different, less fanfare-ish circumstances. He would have preferred a private stroll with each of them or, at the very least, a smaller dinner gathering where the conversation included everyone.
He focused on his meal, which was well done, centering around a delectable piece of lamb. But the best part of the meal was the dessert. The woman beside him called it a sponge cake.
“Sponge cake?” he repeated.
“It’s a favorite of Queen Victoria.”
He would ask Rosa to find the recipe for it.
After the dessert dishes had been cleared, Mateo participated as best he could in the obligatory social exchanges about the weather and admitted that spring in London was too cold for his tastes. He nodded along as another gentleman waxed philosophically about the chances of an education bill to pass Parliament. When asked about the Abbott estate—everyone seemed to know something about it—he was forced to admit he hadn’t known his grandfather well, but had learned a lot about him in the course of reviewing the records.
And so it went.
After dinner, the ladies retired to the salon, and he remained behind with the gentlemen to sip brandy and smoke cigars, because it was the polite thing to do. But the custom—which had been imported to Santiava—felt a bit archaic to him. Why shouldn’t they all, ladies included, enjoy brandy and a cigar, if it was so desirable? Why was it always necessary to separate the sexes? Why did society make so many blasted rules?
Alas, as there would be no social revolution this evening—more was the pity, as that at least would be entertaining—Mateo sipped his brandy. Eventually, Mr. Forsythe proclaimed the male portion of the evening had concluded and led the way to rejoin the ladies.
They returned to the large drawing room, and there Mateo was served more port he didn’t want. Lady Aleksander descended on him like a heron descending to the shore, talons thrust forward, wings outstretched. “My lord, I found you! May I introduce you to a friend of mine?”
That friend, as it happened, was Miss Christiana Porter. Mateo had made her acquaintance briefly when he’d arrived, and as promised, she was indeed quite beautiful. Her skin was creamy and smooth like porcelain, and she had hair the color of corn silk that made her pale blue eyes stand out. He thought them a bit lighter than Miss Woodchurch’s, whose eyes were the color of a spring sky.
He was admiring Miss Porter’s fine looks as she ran through her litany of proper things to say to him: How delighted she was to make his acquaintance. How wonderful he had joined them this evening. Didn’t he think the lamb was delicious?
The conversation suited Mateo, as it required very little from him.
But then something terrible happened—Miss Porter asked him where Santiava was and then proceeded to demonstrate her utter ignorance of European geography. Mateo didn’t know if it was more startling that a young woman born into privilege and with a proper education would have no notion of where countries such as Spain and France were, or that he cared. But he discovered in those few moments that he did, indeed, very much care. How could he entertain the thought of marrying someone who hadn’t the slightest idea of what country was across a narrow sea from the one she inhabited?
He was relieved when the heron descended again, this time whisking him away to converse with Miss Cupperson.
Miss Cupperson was the opposite of Miss Porter both in looks and knowledge of the world. In fact, she was so knowledgeable that she was determined to regale him with all that she’d learned about Santiava. She even threw in a few obscure tidbits about Spain, lest he think she not know where Santiava was. The woman rattled off so many facts that there ceased to be any semblance of conversation at all. He felt as if he was sitting before his tutor, receiving a lesson he’d already heard. Did he know, for example, that Santiava exported animal skins, spices, and olive oil?
He never had to admit that he did, because she moved on quickly to Santiava’s history as a seafaring nation.
When Miss Cupperson had exhausted all the things she’d learned for the occasion, Lady Aleksander was on hand to bring him to the third lady of the evening.
Miss Flora Raney was standing in a group of people that included her parents and two others whose names Mateo had already forgotten. He also noticed that very nearby, standing with her back turned to Miss Raney, as if she were waiting for someone else to come, was Miss Woodchurch.
Mateo greeted her parents and then Miss Raney. She curtsied and smiled. He asked how she’d found the evening thus far—the dullest of questions, for what could she possibly say? It had been miserable thus far? That the lamb was tough, the wine sour? Of course not. She said it was lovely—no more, no less.
Which, unlike the previous young lady, left Mateo with the burden of carrying on the conversation. Not his forte. He remembered Sofia had once told him that young women were taught not to say too much lest they say the wrong thing. He understood that—as a boy, he’d lived in constant fear of saying the wrong thing and being publicly humiliated for it. But how could a woman like Miss Raney say the wrong thing? It was only for him to hear, and he was too polite to contradict her. People were entitled to their opinions—men certainly offered theirs without thought or invitation.
He liked that Miss Raney was attractive. Not remarkably so, not like Miss Porter, but very appealing all the same. She was petite, and her hands so small they looked almost fragile. Mateo tried to picture her fingers kneading dough and couldn’t. She seemed a bit anxious, and he assumed it was because of him—it was beyond his comprehension why he could never seem to put anyone at ease. But he would try, for her sake.
He asked in what part of town she resided. She rallied—she said where she lived then asked him how he liked Grosvenor Square and before he could answer, reported that she had a very good friend who lived across the square from him, and that they liked to stroll through from time to time. He said that he found the square pleasant, which wasn’t entirely true. He rarely stepped foot into the square, preferring his own private garden. And he’d given very little thought to its ambiance when he did.
Miss Raney bit her lower lip as she tried to think of what to say next. This was the point of any given acquaintance where Mateo struggled, as he was likewise trying to find something that two complete strangers might discuss.
He was grateful to Lady Raney for turning to them when she did and asking if he’d seen the art exhibit at the Royal Hall.
“I have not,” he said.
“It’s a wonderful exhibit, isn’t it, darling?” she asked Miss Raney. “You really must see it, my lord. Flora, tell him your favorite,” she instructed.
Miss Raney dutifully agreed that the art was lovely, and that she very much liked the paintings of landscapes. She said it reminded her of the country where they went to summer. Mateo asked if she had a particular interest in art. She said she liked art, but it wasn’t a particular interest, really. He asked what her interests were. Miss Raney looked almost confused by the question, as if she’d never put any thought to it.
“Well, Ilikeart,” she said, as if he’d somehow misunderstood her. “And music.”
Art and music, standard fare. Show him a person who did not list art and music as their interests and he’d show you someone who lived in a cave. He’d hoped for something a bit more interesting, something he might find a response to. Or something entirely unexpected, like an interest in the Sahara Desert. Maybe he should ask if she’d ever met a Spaniard or Santiavan, or if her education had extended to geography of the world.
