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Lord Hurrow nodded. “I meant to congratulate you on your engagement to my cousin.”
His congratulations rang hollow. Something about how he’d spoken implied that he expected a certain reaction or question to arise, but Marcella couldn’t imagine what it might be, unless Lord Hurrow’s intention was for her to speak ill of his own relation. She would not do that. Even if she meant to ruin her engagement, there was no reason to say anything unkind about the man.
“Thank you for your kind words,” she said instead.
“He’s quite a fortunate man, my cousin,” Lord Hurrow continued. “Many of the men here tonight would be quite honored to find themselves engaged to so beautiful a creature as you.”
It would be her beauty he commented upon, for Marcella was convinced that Lord Hurrow cared for little else in a wife. Certainly, he’d never spoken ill of Marcella in her presence, but she’d seen the flicker of rueful amusement when she spoke of her love for books or writing. He thought her a lady who’d taken a fancy to creating art. Marcella suspected that she was, in his eyes, nothing more than a silly girl, playing novelist.
“Am I so beautiful?” Marcella asked.
“Of course you are. A man would be a fool to suggest otherwise.”
“But there are many lovely ladies among theton,” she continued. “Why would you call me beautiful? I’m as pretty as they, and if I am, there’s no reason to remark on my loveliness at all.”
The lord only smiled at her, and something about the expression was condescending. She was sure that Lord Hurrow wanted her to accept the compliment as every other lady before her had. It would be gracious of her to just smile and thank the Marquess. But how many other women had he called beautiful? Marcella didn’t feel inclined to be flustered and seduced by the same compliment which he’d doubtlessly paid countless other ladies.
“You’ve seldom danced with me before,” Marcella said. “What has changed tonight?”
The dance ceased.
“I merely wanted to congratulate you,” Lord Hurrow said. “It seemed as though a dance might also be in order, if only to make you feel better about the poor one you just finished.”
“I didn’t finish a poor dance,” Marcella replied. “Your cousin, Lord Reginald, did as well as he was able. I can’t fault him in being a little lacking in his dancing.”
And his manners. His lack of decorum.
A shiver, not at all unpleasant, traced the curve of Marcella’s spine. His willingness to abandon both manners and decorum might be why her thoughts kept returning to him. He was such a unique man, so unexpected.
“I don’t know if my dear cousin will ever learn to be one of us again,” the Marquess replied. “Would you wish to remain engaged to him or wed to him if he cannot?”
“I would say that you seem to speak most unkindly about your own cousin, and you’ve a dreadful way of showing your congratulations.”
“It is not cruelty,” he said. “It is only the truth. I care deeply for my cousin and his health, and I care for you, also. Our families have been so close for so long. I’d be distraught to see that all torn apart by a poor match.”
Marcella bit the inside of her cheek. “Thank you for your concern, Lord Hurrow. Forgive me, but I see Adeline is waving to me. I must answer her.”
