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He stared down into his still half-filled cup. Or was it half-empty? “No, thank you,” he answered. What he wanted—needed—was a good stiff glass of Scottish whisky, preferably some that Laurence’s cousin had sent to him for Christmas.
It had been delicious.
“How do you find the weather, Dr. Marbry?”
Did the woman need to say his name each time she addressed him?
“Cold,” he answered truthfully.
Poor Lady Honoria looked as uncomfortable as he felt. Surely there must be something they had in common. He cleared his throat. “I understand you paint.” Not that he painted. He left that up to his brother-in-law, the supplier of fine whisky Timothy sorely needed at the moment.
“I do, although my attempts are feeble compared to most.”
Self-deprecating as well as quiet.No over-exaggerated talents for her. He rather liked her honesty. “I’m sure you are being too harsh on yourself. I should very much like to see your attempts and judge for myself.”
Not really.So much for honesty.
Her cheeks flushed, and—at that moment—she appeared quite lovely.
“My daughter is quite accomplished on the pianoforte, sir,” her mother, who accompanied them as chaperone, piped up from where she sat in the corner.
“Might you favor me with a song?” He sent her his best smile, but it felt more like a grimace.
Lord, he wished he were at the clinic lancing a boil.
Her cheeks flushed again, wiping the thought of a festering boil from his mind.
“I’m nowhere near as accomplished as your sister, Dr. Marbry. Lady Montgomery is extraordinary. I had the privilege of hearing her play at a musicale during my first Season.”
Apparently, Lady Honoria had difficulty with compliments. This courting business was more difficult than he remembered.
Still, she rose and moved toward the instrument, settling herself on the bench.
Throughout her rendition of Mozart’s “Rondo Alla Turca,” he smiled and leaned forward, feigning interest. She played well, her fingers never missing a note, but something was lacking. He struggled to place it.
Passion.
It was as if she were only going through the motions. There was no life exuded in the tones ringing from the instrument.
Yet he applauded enthusiastically when she finished.
He was, after all, a gentleman.
And he was courting Lady Honoria Bell.
Why did he feel so hollow inside? As if a surgeon had slit him open and scooped out all of his organs and intestines.
As Lady Honoria retook her seat and smoothed her skirts, no spark of excitement rose in him.
One thing was certain. Marriage to Honoria Bell would not risk his heart.
And that was fine with him.
* * *
“Your smile is blinding me, miss.”Nancy, Priscilla’s maid, shaped the last strand of blond hair in the intricate coiffure she’d created. Priscilla’s father had gone above and beyond to woo Nancy back into his employ.
Priscilla rose and assessed her image in the cheval mirror. Tiny seed pearls wove throughout her hair’s intricate design—the effect most attractive. “You’ve outdone yourself, Nancy.” She ran her hands down the pale blue satin of her gown, bouncing on her toes in excitement. Delicate Venetian lace edged the scandalously low neckline and puff sleeves. She slipped on the long white gloves, relishing in the silk's feel against her skin.
