Movement caught her eye. Across the room, a woman in primrose silk was smiling in her direction. Not just smiling—beckoning, with a little wave that seemed to say come, join us.
Estella's spirits lifted. She smiled back and took a step forward?—
"Harriet! There you are, darling!"
The call came from directly behind Estella. The woman in primrose waved more vigorously and swept past without so much as a glance at Estella, who was left mid-step with her smile still fixed on her face and heat rushing into her cheeks.
Right. Of course. She hadn't been beckoning her. Why would she? Estella didn’t even know her.
In fact, Estella knew no one here.
Well, she supposed her father counted. And her chaperone, though heaven knew where she’d gone off to.
So no, she wasn’t totally alone. It just…felt that way.
She pivoted smoothly. Or, at least, she hoped it looked smooth. And then she continued walking as though she'd always intended to go in this direction. Toward what, she wasn't certain. Another wall sconce, perhaps. She was becoming quite the connoisseur.
Back home, it hadn't been like this. She'd had callers. Potential suitors, even. She hadn’t been entirely without prospects. In fact, the squire's son had come around twice last winter, and a young clergyman had shown a flattering interest in the spring. And then Mr. Phelps, who’d seemed quite smitten with her until he’d abruptly left town.
Actually, now that she thought about it, a suspicious number of her admirers had developed pressing business elsewhere.
Mr. Ashby had received an unexpected inheritance requiring his immediate presence in Scotland. The squire's son had simply stopped calling, and she’d heard he had business elsewhere.
And then there was Mr. Phelps. Dear, dull Mr. Phelps, who'd been working up the courage to speak to Papa for a month. But then he’d left for Cornwall overnight with no good explanation, and she hadn’t heard a word since.
Her smile faltered. Was she really that forgettable? Or perhaps just… uninspiring?
She resisted the urge to look down at her pale green gown. She knew what she’d find, and uninspiring was the kindest word for it. In truth, the gown had been altered and refitted so many times, it was difficult to say from what Season it had originally hailed.
Neither the color nor the fit were particularly flattering. But she’d done the best she could with her blonde locks, and she’d even taken a bit of pride in her pink cheeks and bright blue eyes when she’d cast one last look at her reflection.
She might not be a diamond of the first water, but several callers had told her she had a pretty smile. So…there was that.
She forced her smile even brighter. It was, after all, her best—and only—accessory.
But London was a fresh start. New gentlemen, new possibilities. Surely they could not all develop urgent business in distant counties.
She scanned the room and tried to assess the field with a pragmatic eye. There were men everywhere, which was encouraging in theory. Though in practice they were clustered in impenetrable groups that seemed designed to prevent exactly the sort of approach she was contemplating.
She drew in a deep breath and studied her options.
You are Estella Hale. You have run a household since you were seventeen. You have negotiated with creditors and once talked a horse out of a ditch. You can certainly make conversation with a stranger at a ball.
The horse had been easier, truth be told. If only she could wave an apple in front of these men to gain their attention. Or perhaps, take out a riding crop and?—
"You look as though you're forming a battle plan."
Estella gave a little start at the low voice so close to her ear. Her gaze snapped to the gentleman who'd appeared at her side.
He seemed not much older than her, perhaps five and twenty, with warm brown eyes, an easy smile, and the kind of open, pleasant features that immediately put one at ease.
He looked, in short, like the answer to a very specific prayer that went: Please, God, let someone in this room be nice to me.
"Not a battle plan," she said, pleased to hear her voice come out steady and almost playful. "More of a strategic assessment."
The gentleman laughed, warm and surprised, as if she'd genuinely delighted him. "Well then, allow me to offer my services as an intelligence officer. I know nearly everyone here, and I'm an excellent gossip." He bowed with a flourish that managed to be charming without tipping into ridiculous. "Mr. John Fairchild, at your service."
A small voice in the back of her mind pointed out that they hadn't been properly introduced. He'd simply…appeared.
