so swoon-worthy they produced marriages. Hasty ones at that.
“Did you honestly expect me to leave you in the care of the dowager and give you even more reason to wish to become a spinster?”
“Is there no one else?”
“I’m afraid there’s not. As you know Marcus and Emma don’t go to London for the Season and Caroline has agreed to put her full effort into helping Edwina marry Sir Wallace this Season.”
“But—but, I cannot stay with Lady Townson.”
“I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Henrietta started. “Enjoy what?” she said, blinking to clear her wandering thoughts.
“Your Season with Brooke. She can be quite fun.”
“She can also be quite forward.”
“That’s not always such a bad thing, Henrietta.”
“Juliet, please be reasonable. One Season—no, one month—under the care of Lady Townson and I’ll either be ruined or betrothed.”
“Well then, just as I suspected, she’ll be the perfect chaperone for you.”
2
Henrietta wished more than anything she was at home and in her bed, that way she could pull her pillow tightly over her face and scream until her throat hurt and her voice was gone.
But alas, she was in yet another London ballroom, standing on the edge of the room and hoping nobody would notice her.
She hated London.
She hated ballrooms.
She hated dancing, debutantes, and gossip.
And most of all, she hated one Mr. Simon Appleton. Who, by the way, seemed to be invited to nearly every event Henrietta’s chaperone, who just so happened to be a countess, was invited to. It was perplexing. It was odd. It was annoying!
And so was he.
For the past two Seasons, he seemed to appear in the oddest places: musicales, dances, breakfasts—he was even at the most tedious museum ever opened, for gracious sakes! He was always there. And worse yet, he was always staring at her in a way that would suggest he’d seen her naked! Which, of course, he had.
Ignoring him and those overly perceptive eyes of his, she made her way across the stuffy ballroom and into the refreshment room.
The scent of spice cake filled her nostrils and she took another whiff for good measure as she walked over to the large rectangular table in the middle of the room. On either end of the table, arranged to look like a pyramid, were little squares of spice cake. In the middle was a large chessboard of glasses, made up of an equal number of glasses of champagne punch and lemonade. Never two glasses that held the same beverage next to each other.
“Quite impressive,” came a voice from across the table.
She immediately recognized that voice as Mr. Appleton’s, and it sent a shiver skating down Henrietta’s spine. Stiffly, she nodded her agreement then eyed the door. She needed to escape without delay.
“Why do you avoid me?”
She met his eyes. “Why do you stare at me?”
Mr. Appleton poked his bottom lip out and gave a lopsided shrug. For some reason that only irritated her more, and she inwardly commanded herself to not allow him to affect her. Mr. Appleton took a step toward her. “Why do you stare at me?” he mused.
“I do no such thing! I never stare at anyone. You’re the one—” She cut off her own words when a smug expression came over his face.
He arched one dark brow. Truly he was a handsome gentleman—if not a wee bit infuriating. “How would you know I stare at you if you’re not staring at me?”
Henrietta pursed her lips.
The annoying man laughed. Loudly.
Irritation at the man and his dratted logic bubbled up inside her and she clutched her hands into her thick red satin skirts to keep from walloping him the way she’d witnessed her younger brothers Lucas and Samuel do to one another when they were at odds. She inclined her chin. “I would hardly call looking in your direction on occasion staring,” she said as smoothly as she could, praying he wouldn’t challenge her on that. “However, I find it quite unusual that when I do, your eyes are always fixed on me.”
“I don’t.”
Equal parts irritation and dread filled her at his easy words. “Let me guess,” she started with a bit more sarcasm than any proper young lady should have in her tone. “You’re hoping for another peek?”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers.
She didn’t know whether to be flattered or to throw a cup of champagne in his handsome face.
She opted for neither, though denying herself the gratification of washing that smug expression away with a cool drink was sorely tempting.
“Well, that won’t be