That left Melissa having to fend off those gentlemen who, finally, had noticed her.
She didn’t want to be noticed.
The musicians put bow to string, and irritatingly, two gentlemen determinedly approached. A yard away, they saw each other, halted, and eyed each other discouragingly.
Lord Cargill’s son blinked first, and with a triumphant smile, Lord Hopgood advanced, beaming winningly at Melissa. “My dear Miss North, might I request the pleasure of this dance?”
Summoning a weak smile, Melissa met his brown eyes and flicked open the fan she carried for such moments. Fanning her face, in a timid, almost faltering voice, she replied, “I fear, sir, that I’m feeling rather faint. Perhaps…later.”
The thought of a female swooning in their arms was usually enough to make gentlemen rethink the wisdom of pursuing her company, and so it proved, although to give Hopgood his due, he did solicitously inquire as to whether she wished to be escorted to her mother’s side.
Heaven forbid.Melissa’s mother would never believe such a tale of her robustly healthy daughter. “No, thank you. I would rather remain here, out of the way.” Melissa smiled more genuinely and released Hopgood to find some other partner. Cargill had already taken himself off. Having successfully avoided yet another dance, Melissa folded her fan and kept her eyes on it, her gaze directed downward so as not to invite further attention.
By ton standards, she was definitely not in Mandy’s league in terms of visual beauty, and she had to admit that the gentlemen’s attentions, genuine enough, were flattering in a way, yet senselessly encouraging any gentleman formed no part of her forward planning.
Slowly, she allowed her gaze to rise again, until she was contemplating the couples whirling about the dance floor. Idly scanning, she noted the bright, hopeful expressions on the faces of many of the year’s debutantes. Despite her intended direction, she could appreciate the emotions behind those starry-eyed expressions. Once, she, too, had hoped to find a gentleman with whom to spend the rest of her life. The right gentleman—the one she could marry with a glad and whole heart—with whom, hand in hand, she could establish a home and a family of her own. Given her background and her family, such a desire was ingrained, yet despite applying herself diligently to searching for said gentleman, she’d never found him. In the years since her come-out, she’d met no man she could even remotely imagine spending the rest of her life beside.
Within her first two Seasons, she’d established that either the gentleman for her didn’t exist, or she was too picky. Or both.
Then during the year of their missed Season, while the family was in mourning, she’d discovered other interests. Interests society deemed acceptable for a lady, even an unmarried one, to pursue.
On returning to the ton and finding it and her prejudices unchanged, she’d formulated a plan for her future life. Unfortunately, a necessary prerequisite—at least as far as her parents and maternal grandmother were concerned—was attendance at all suitable social events through to the end of this Season.
Only then would her “looking for the right gentleman” ordeal be declared at an end.
She’d badgered her parents into accepting that, come June this year, she would be beyond the age of mixing with debutantes. Although they’d yet to acquiesce to her describing herself as being formally “on the shelf,” they’d agreed that, instead of attending the balls and parties of the social whirl, she could devote her time to improving the welfare of orphaned children up and down the country. That was her aim, and once she reached the end of this Season and had appeased her elders, she was determined to strike out and fashion a satisfying life of enlightened spinsterhood.
She couldn’t wait for the Season to end.
Predictably, the grandes dames were in no way amused by her direction, which they’d learned of from her grandmother and her bosom-bows. Having a grandmother who ranked among the grandest of the grandes dames wasn’t always an advantage. Indeed, several grandes dames had demanded that she describe her “right gentleman,” something she’d found well-nigh impossible to do. It was difficult to explain that some finely honed instinct simply knew—with absolute and unwavering certainty—that none of the gentlemen who had appeared before her was the right one for her.
The grandes dames had not been impressed by her vague replies. She was fairly certain several were combing through their acquaintances, searching for whom they might, in desperation, thrust into her path over the coming months.
The music faded, and the dance ended. As the couples drifted from the floor and conversational groups formed, she wished she could fade into the paneling. Avoiding dancing was one thing. Avoiding conversational interaction was rather more difficult.
Apparently idly, she scanned the room, noting several determined gentlemen who were looking her way, then her gaze snagged on a particular dark head directly across the crowded room.
Curious as to why he, whoever he was, had snared her attention, she focused on his profile, all she could presently see as he spoke with several ladies. He was tall, dark-haired, with upward-angled dark brows and thick black lashes, chiseled cheekbones, a clean-cut jawline, and patrician nose. Something about him seemed familiar…
Her eyes widened. “Good Lord,” she muttered. “It’s Dagenham.”
No, not Dagenham—he’s the Earl of Carsely now.
“What the devil’s he doing here?” She frowned. “He’s likely to be mobbed.”
That was not a facetious prediction. She’d known he’d gone into the Home Office and, subsequently, been sent to Ireland. During her first Season, she’d wondered and, ultimately, had surreptitiously checked and learned that he had still been on the other side of the Irish Sea and had not been expected to make an appearance in London any time soon.
And he hadn’t.
Then last year, his father had unexpectedly died, cutting short Julian’s Home Office career and, presumably, bringing him back to England, but he hadn’t returned to London. Given that, courtesy of succeeding to the title, he’d shot to the very top of the eligible bachelor stakes, she’d considered that a very wise decision.
As far as she’d heard, he hadn’t been sighted in the capital—until tonight.
She continued to frown. He had to know that he’d become a prime target for every matchmaker in the ton. To come strolling into Lady Connaught’s ballroom… Cynically, she arched her brows. “Perhaps hewantsto be mobbed.”
She hadn’t spoken with Julian—Viscount Dagenham as he’d been—for over eight years, and even then, their interactions had spanned only a matter of weeks. She’d been fifteen and he twenty-one when they’d agreed that their budding juvenile romance was a connection neither could see any viable way to pursue. They’d both been too young; either asking the other to wait for three to four years hadn’t been in their cards.
They’d parted and gone their separate ways.
