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The man transformed before her very eyes into a gentleman of the first stare of elegance. He swept her a bow that might have graced the king himself. Then he caught her hand in his and kissed the very tips of her gloves. “That will be extraordinarily pleasant.” His voice took on a practiced husky ring that promised delight.

Henrietta blinked and almost laughed, but she caught herself. “You must have lived in London all your life,” she said curiously.

There was something about the warmth in his brown eyes that was slightly unsettling.

“I rarely visit the country,” he said. “I’m afraid that bucolic pleasures have held little appeal.”

30 Eloisa

James

Henrietta could well believe it. Even bedraggled by his encounter with Anabel, he was a fish out of water in Limpley Stoke.

“Will you making a long visit?”

“That depends,” he said, his eyes intent on hers, “on the pleasures of the countryside. I must say, I have found myself . . . surprised to this point.”

Henrietta nearly laughed again but managed to catch the giggle. It would never do to insult such a fashionable buck, especially while he was in the midst of practicing his manners on her. Of course, he had no idea that his manners were wasted.

As she made her way back down the High Street, her right leg dragging on each step, her sister Imogen bounced down the stairs from the mercer’s shop.

“Oh, Henrietta,” Imogen called. “There you are! I’ve been looking up and down.” She stopped sharp. “What on earth happened to you? What is that appalling smell!”

“Nothing extraordinary happened,” Henrietta said, climbing into their carriage. “Although I am afraid that my dress is rather odiferous.” She pushed hard on her aching hip with a gloved fist. Her hip was throbbing in a way that promised a marked limp for a day or two.

“How are you feeling?” Imogen asked. “Is your hip causing you discomfort?”

“I’m just tired. I met a young child, and I’m afraid that she spit up on my gown.”

“Well, that should cure you of your attachment to the little creatures,” Imogen said cheerfully. “You really do smell, Henrietta.”

Henrietta sighed. Imogen had taken her sixteenth birthday as a prompt to engage in candid remarks that she considered adult.

“You must rest yourself,” Imogen continued. “Although I Fool for Love

31

think this excursion has done you some good. You don’t look as pallid as you do normally.”

Henrietta knew very well that she normally had the hue of a ghost without Imogen telling her. At least that had nothing to do with her infirmity. Papa had always insisted that Henrietta inherited her looks from her mama. When she was small Henrietta had spent hours staring at the little miniature of the woman who died giving birth to her, wondering if her odd-looking assortment of features could ever turn into something as exquisite as her own mama’s face.

The problem was that now she looked well enough, but it didn’t matter. She was tainted by her lameness and by her inability to marry. From the moment she was conscious of herself, she had been conscious of her hip. It wasn’t because of pain, either. Unless she took long walks or carried heavy weights, it didn’t hurt very much.

But her mother had the same hip, and her mother had died giving birth to her. Henrietta had known that fact for years. If she had a child, she too would die, as her mother had died. She had cried and cried when she first realized the truth. One day, her father had found her and asked what was the matter. When she finally gulped it out, he gathered her in his arms and promised that she would never, ever be affected by her infirmity, because she wouldn’t get married. “You will stay home with me. Who needs a husband?” he said with mock fierceness, and she, at the tender age of nine, had agreed.

“I would never want to leave you, Papa,” she had said.

“And you never will,” he had said tenderly, kissing her on the forehead.

Now she was three-and-twenty. Her papa was dead these two years. But it wasn’t as if there were suitors pounding on her door anyway.

32 Eloisa

James

The truth stung. Yes, her father had made it clear that he would never allow her to marry. But men never wanted anything to do with her once they found out about her hip. Who would want a wife who was sure to die giving birth, almost certainly taking the child with her? Everyone said that she herself had only survived due to a miracle.

“Perhaps you should forgo the evening if you are overly tired,” Imogen said, checking her curls in a little mirror she carried in her reticule.