Because courage, in matters of the heart, was altogether more demanding than the battlefield of conversation.
Arthur returned his attention to Miss Greystone, who had now launched into a comparison between Bath’s social whirl and that of London.
“You’ll forgive me,” he said with a faint smile and a measured bow, “it was delightful to speak with you, Miss Greystone, but I must pay my respects to Lady Maria before she is overwhelmed.”
Miss Greystone looked slightly disappointed but curtsied again, and Lady Gillian gave him a look that clearly conveyedthis is not over.
He had made a clean escape. Or at least that’s what he thought.
Lady Gillian Beaumont was in her element.
Arthur had barely finished exchanging pleasantries with Miss Greystone before another young lady was ushered in his direction—this one introduced with the particular flourish his mother reserved for what she deemed an especially worthy candidate.
“Miss Honoria Denby,” Lady Gillian declared, “the daughter of Sir Thomas Denby, whom I’m sure you recall from last summer’s garden party at Chiswell Park.”
Arthur bowed politely as the girl curtsied. Miss Denby had an eager smile and an unfortunate habit of blinking rapidly whenever spoken to, as though preparing herself to be dazzled by whatever was said next. She wore a gown of pale mauve and carried a small embroidered reticule that she clutched with both hands like a lifeline.
“We were just discussing the botanical gardens,” she said, once the initial courtesies were exchanged. “Have you visited the new conservatory at Kew, Lord Beaumont? I daresay it is quite the marvel. The orchids alone—”
She faltered briefly, clearly uncertain whether orchids were a suitably refined topic.
“I’ve not had the pleasure,” Arthur said smoothly.
“Oh, you really must,” she went on, undeterred. “I found it terribly romantic, though of course I was with my aunt at the time. Not that she isn’t a dear, but she’s dreadfully inclined to speak of plant species as if they were acquaintances.”
Arthur smiled with just the right amount of amusement and said nothing.
Miss Denby prattled on for several more minutes, during which Arthur learned the names of no fewer than three orchid varieties and one regrettable detail about her cousin’s fainting episode in a hothouse. At the first available pause, he offered a gentle bow and extricated himself, only to be intercepted before he had taken two steps.
“Arthur, dearest,” Lady Gillian said, appearing at his elbow with uncanny speed, “you must speak with Miss Rosalind Perrin. Her mother and I were at school together. Her family has estates in Hampshire, and she speaks Italian quite fluently.”
“I see,” Arthur murmured, resigned.
Miss Perrin approached with a serene expression and a clear, polished accent that she wasted no time in demonstrating. Within moments she was quoting lines of Petrarch—first in Italian, then in English, then again in Italian—while Arthur stood motionless, his expression carefully neutral.
Her father, he learned, had been an amateur composer. Her mother excelled in watercolors. Her brother had once studied astronomy, but now bred horses instead.
He felt as though he were reviewing a recommendation.
“And I quite adore Voltaire,” Miss Perrin added. “Though I’m told some find him too... French.”
Arthur’s jaw twitched ever so slightly. “Indeed.”
When she finally stepped away, flushed with the triumph of having conversed at length with a Viscount, Arthur exhaled slowly, barely resisting the urge to run a hand down his face.
This was not conversation. It was audition.
Lady Gillian was waiting again, this time with an expression of steely purpose. “You are doing well,” she said in a low voice, as if they were at war and he had successfully captured a trench. “But do remember that appearances matter. Lingering too long with any one young lady—”
“…will only encourage speculation,” he finished for her. “Yes, Mother. I am well aware. I have read the script.”
He did not wait for her next recommendation, but he didn’t need to for he was suddenly stopped in his tracks by none other than Lady Agatha Fenchurch, whose mother practically shoved her into his arms.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Fenchurch,” Arthur said, knowing full well that he had no reason to apologize as he righted the young lady and stepped back to allow an appropriate amount of space between them once again.
“Oh, no,” Miss Fenchurch replied, pressing her hand to her chest in mock sincerity in a way that suggested she hadn’t employed this little trick countless times before. “It is me who has always been so clumsy.”
Before he had chance to escape, Lady Agatha Fenchurch launched into an unwanted and wholly uninvited tale in which she recounted, in excruciating detail, an unfortunate incident involving a flaming syllabub, a startled soprano, and a very affronted parrot.
