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“...might be the Marquess of Salisbury.” The speaker was the shorter of the two girls, a blond-haired young woman in a rose-and-cream colored dress.
“It is not. You know I would tell you if he were.” The second girl was taller with dark hair and a slender figure.
From his hiding place, Daniel frowned. There was something familiar about the young woman, but he couldn’t quite identify what it was.
“Well, you did say he was a handsome, tall and dark-haired man, with a lean figure and slightly angular face.”
“So I did, but that man is not tall enough, not handsome enough, and his hair is not so long and thick. His shoulders are too narrow—his waist, not narrow enough.” Daniel frowned again.
How would a young woman of the ton know his appearance so well? He had scarce been seen in public more than once or twice since his return.
“If the Marquess is handsomer than that, he must be quite handsome indeed.”
“Good looking enough, I will grant you. Though really, why you have such interest in him…” The taller girl’s words trailed off.
Something about the tone stirred a memory, but it slipped away, frustratingly elusive.
“Why should I not? He is bound to be better than many of the bachelors of the ton.”
Daniel nearly groaned. Another young woman seeking to marry well, with him as her target of choice. He might have said something, if he had not been unwilling to reveal his presence and lose any chance to hear more of the ton’s opinions of him.
“In title and looks perhaps. But think—would you truly want to spend all your time at a country estate, more than an hour from town? And he is so very reserved. He does not much care for society, I believe. I should be highly doubtful that he would appreciate the social scene nearly as much as you do. Why, you might be stuck never attending any events, or only one or two a Season, and you would almost certainly never have opportunity to host one of your own.”
“I do believe you are exaggerating.” There was a sniff from the blond girl. “In any case, he has only just come into his title, so why should not have this Season to himself if he wishes?”
“That might be true.” The dark-haired maiden shifted her position. ‘But only think—have you ever heard of him being sociable? He’s not much inclined to conversation. Far too reserved. And there’s truth in the rumor that his interest in his art supersedes all else.”
“It cannot—”
“Itcan. When he works, it’s a struggle to get more than two words at a time from him. And he’ll work for hours if no one reminds him of anything else. Why, I’d swear his butler shows more energy and interest in other folk than the Marquess does himself.”
From his place in the shadows, Daniel frowned. While it was true enough, he supposed, that did not explain how the young lady had come by such observations. It almost sounded like she’d had an opportunity to see him work. Like she had been to his home for an extended period of time. But that was impossible. He had hardly entertained any guests save Jackson and his wife, save the unwanted intruders he sent away as soon as it was possible to do so, save Hetty.
“Well, there is nothing wrong with a man who is reserved and focused.”
“Neither is there anything much interesting about a man whose very nature defines the word ‘taciturn’. Or who is always buried in his work. Really, how does one make conversation with a man who spends his days cooped up in a workroom with slabs of marble and barely emerges for meals? To say nothing of all that stone and dust.”
The comment stung, especially in light of all the conversations he and Hetty had engaged in. For certain, his model had never complained that he was a poor conversationalist, nor that he was uninteresting. In fact, he’d wager his model would have a far different opinion of him, were she here to voice it. Especially considering the growing closeness they’d shared, and the kiss that had almost concluded their last session. No, Hetty Smith had certainly not seemed to consider him uninteresting, nor had she seemed to mind the dust and stone of his studio…
Hetty.
Realization hit like a stone on a ricochet. The tone, the mannerisms, the coloring, and the build. They were familiar because they were Hetty’s.
He stared at the woman’s back. She was the right height. She had the right proportions. Her hair was the right shade. Her posture was remarkably similar to her pose during their work. Put the masked woman in a plain working dress, or a sheet—
Hetty?
It was impossible, but years of artistic efforts had honed much of his observational skills, and now that the connection had been made there was no denying it. But how could she have come to be here, attending the masquerade, and clearly dressed as one of the guests, rather than one of Jackson’s servants?
Her bearing and familiarity suggested she was a lady of the ton. Certainly, she seemed to know her companion well. But why, by all that was holy, would a maiden of the ton pose as a working-class girl posing as a model?
Was it a ploy to secure his hand in marriage? And yet, she had made no mention of anything of the sort. She’d not attempted any sort of seduction either. There’d been no outraged male relatives pounding on his door. There was simply no sense to the whole series of events if she were only another girl looking to snare herself a titled husband.
But then...was she in fact a member of the working class? In that case, how had she managed to be here? Jackson was many things, but there was no scenario in existence where he or Patricia would have invited a young woman of lower station such as Hetty Smith to an event such as this. The elite of the ton were in attendance, and a woman of such different social status would be terribly out of place.
Neither would any other noble family he knew arrange for a servant to attend a society event, even had he not suspected that she was currently seeking a new situation.
Beyond that, no maiden poor enough to resort to modeling for money to put bread on the table could possibly have afforded such an expensive evening gown, let alone looked so comfortable in it.
