Oh, goodness. “Mr. North, let me be frank.”
“Darling,” Mama said in her fake, sweet voice. “Perhaps you want to talk to Mr. North in private.”
“No, what I have to say can be said here in the safety of the ballroom.”
Mr. North sniggered again, and she wanted to shout at him to stop laughing because there was nothing to laugh about and because he had a terrible laugh. She’d never been an aggressive person, but between her mama’s persistence and Mr. North’sobtusity, her nerves were fraying like the threads of a worn hessian carpet.
He offered her his arm. “Come now, Miss Haywood. I’m sure you’ll agree with me about the intimate nature of our conversation.” He arched his eyebrows.
Her anger reached a boiling point.
“We don’t have anything to discuss, intimate or otherwise.” She wielded the fan as if it were a dagger.
Mama poked her with an elbow. “Angeline, do it for me. At least hear what the gentleman has to say.”
What gentleman?
Mr. North grabbed her hand and tugged at it. “Please?”
“Fine. Let’s talk.” She’d have the opportunity to tell Mr. North to go find another woman, or even better, she’d show him her ugly scar to scare him off. And Mama would stop searching for people to drug.
And that would be the end of it.
Surely. Most definitely. The end.
