He was as graceful and assured as ever, and she supposed she’d appeared composed enough. But she was not!
Being so close to him made her feel a bit woozy and she’d worried she would do something ridiculous like faint in his arms. What would she say then? What would she say to dear Lady Mendleton?Terribly sorry to make a scene, it is just that I was overcome by your son. Yes, that son that you are determined to marry off to Lady Annabelle. As I said, my apologies.
Worse, a rather terrible idea had stolen over her as they danced. All along, she had thought she might direct her feelings. Her head would decide what was right, and her heart would follow suit, even if only reluctantly. She had imagined she’d been in control.
As it turned out, her feelings had run on ahead of her with nary a glance back. They refused to be turned. They couldn’t care less what she thought about it.
What now?
She had indicated she would go to the retiring room not because she had any real need of it, but because she wished for a moment alone. A moment away from his presence. A moment to attempt to marshal her scattered thoughts into some semblance of order.
The room, as she entered, clearly spoke of having been designed by a woman. It was not a single room, nor small, but a cavernously long corridor of small private apartments. The carpets were deep and the door leading in was thick and solid—there was a quiet that seemed diametrically opposed to the noisy ballroom. A middle-aged female attendant stood near the door and behind her was a shelf housing an array of handy items, such as handkerchiefs, hairpins, needle and thread, and powders and scents of all sorts. Pots of hyacinths sat outside of each apartment door along the corridor to overpower any unwanted scent that might have the audacity to make an appearance in a ladies’ retiring room.
Each private apartment was large enough to hold a lady and three of her friends should they only be looking for a moment of privacy to exchange gossip. It was set up for everything necessary—a bourdaloue and a chamber pot being the most practical—and a few things unnecessary but welcome, including a table, chair and looking glass, an elegant hairbrush with a cherry wood handle, a stack of handkerchiefs embroidered with Lady Featherstone’s initials, and a velvet settee where a lady might comfortably faint while being ministered to by her friends.
Georgiana had taken herself to the last apartment but one, closed the door and sank down, wishing only for a few minutes of silence.
Even that appeared to be too much to ask for. She heard a loud sob in the next apartment and, as it came through rather sturdy walls, it must have been loud indeed.
The sob was followed by a series of snorts, chokings and further sobs. Georgiana recognized the sounds well enough—a lady was quite hysterical.
It appeared the lady was alone, as she did not hear any other sounds. Why did not the attendant see to it? The matron had placed herself near the front at the doors leading in, but surely she could hear what was emanating from behind that far door.
Georgiana sighed and rose. It was likely a matter of a lover’s quarrel or a girl having to sit out or some such nonsense.
On the other hand, the sobs were rather violent for something of that nature. Perhaps it was a lady who was not squired into supper? The hostess should have done something to rectify the matter but sometimes a thing might be missed. That particular dreadful circumstance might indeed cause such howls.
Somebody was going to have to see if the lady were becoming ill and required assistance.
She left her own apartment and gently knocked on the other door. No answer was given but the sobs had instantly stopped as if they did not like to be caught out.
“Madam,” Georgiana said, “may I help you in any way? Are you in distress? Might I find one of your friends and bring them to you?”
The door suddenly flung open. Much to Georgiana’s surprise, it was Lady Annabelle making all the racket.
The lady pointed at Georgiana and said, “You!”
Chapter Eleven
Lady Annabelle hadflung open the door to her apartment in the retiring room and cried, “You!” Georgiana though it might not have been a particularly alarming thing to say had it not been said in an accusing tone. A condemning tone, really.
“Lady Annabelle?” Georgiana said, for lack of anything more intelligent to say at the sight of the disheveled young lady with very red eyes.
Lady Annabelle staggered back and collapsed on the settee. She heaved sobs.
Whatever Georgiana’s prior feelings had been for the lady, she could not ignore that she was in a dire state. She hurried in and sat next to her, handing her a handkerchief from the neatly piled stack on the side table.
“Whatever has happened,” Georgiana said, “please do allow me to assist you.”
“You cannot help me,” Lady Annabelle said, “nobody can. He despises me!”
“I cannot believe that,” Georgiana said. “Whoever you think of, I am certain it was only a misunderstanding.”
Georgiana might have wished she had not posited that idea. Lady Annabelle, determined to prove Georgiana wrong and show her that there had been no misunderstanding whatsoever, poured out the story of Lord Langley’s insult. She, a marquess’ daughter, had no manners, according to him.
It seemed incredible. Of course, Georgiana had speculated that Lord Langley was not overcome by the lady, but he would never be cruel.
“But why should he say that you had no manners?” Georgiana asked. “That does not sound very like him. What on earth could you have said to cause such a grievous insult?”
