“I am not.”
Lord Townsend followed his gaze. “Pray tell, why are you glaring at Miss Bentley, then?”
“I’m not glaring.”
“No?” Townsend asked, mirth in his voice. “Staring, perhaps?”
“I find it odd that Miss Bentley has not lacked for any dance partners this evening.”
“And why is that?
“She has no prospects.”
Townsend clucked his tongue. “But the last time we spoke, you failed to mention how lovely she is.”
“Does it matter?”
“It does.”
Roswell watched as Miss Bentley’s face lit up in response to something Cosgrove said, and his hands clenched into tight fists.
Townsend eyed him curiously. “Why does it bother you that Cosgrove is dancing with Miss Bentley?”
“Cosgrove is a fool.”
“I won’t disagree with that, but you failed to answer my question.”
Roswell met his friend’s gaze. “Cosgrove is giving her false hope.”
“In what way?” Townsend asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Miss Bentley will be lulled into a false sense of security, but eventually her grand illusions will come crashing down upon her.”
Townsend bobbed his head. “I see, and you can see the future now?”
“I do not have to be a fortune teller to know what will happen.”
Townsend uncrossed his arms. “Why do you loathe Miss Bentley to such a degree?”
“I don’t loathe her.”
“It definitely appears that way.”
“I merely find her vexing.”
“A part of her or her whole person?”
Straightening from the column, Roswell asked his own question. “Have you had a chance to speak to Miss Bentley yet?”
“I have,” Townsend replied. “When I returned Lady Emma to your mother, I spoke to her for a few moments while you went to get a drink.”
“And what did you think?”
“I found Miss Bentley to be a charming young woman.”
Roswell huffed. “Why am I not surprised?” he asked.
Townsend gave him an exasperated look. “I must say that you are being rather petty.”
