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“Miss Haverton,” a man called out. She turned quickly to face him. Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, she tried to recall his name when they were introduced earlier. “I believe I have the next set.”
“Yes,” she stammered, finding her smile again. Her face grew tired of trying to maintain a pleasant expression all evening. “Yes, Mr. Dawson.”
He offered out his hand, so she took it, allowing him to lead her out on the floor with the other dancers. She hardly remembered all the men she had been introduced to that evening as they all said the same things about how pretty she was and how glad they were that she came, and then, they all asked her to dance. Even though she needed to secure an advantageous marriage, she had yet to feel a spark with any man thus far that season.
“You look pensive, Miss Haverton,” Mr. Dawson pointed out as they took a turn in the dance.
“I do apologize,” she said quickly, painting the smile on again.
“May I trouble you for your thoughts?”
She could not tell him how boring and troublesome she found the men amongst theton, so she lied. “I was just thinking of all the candles in this room. The Berkleys must have wanted to impress their guests this evening, surely.”
“They do always have the most diverting affairs,” he agreed. Turning away from him in the steps of the dance, Edwina let her face fall, trying to relax the muscles in her cheeks. As she did, though, her eyes caught the man who had been leering at her from across the room again.
“Do you know that man?” Edwina asked him nervously.
“The one in the corner?” Mr. Dawson asked, looking in the direction Edwina indicated. “I cannot say we have been introduced.”
“I did not think it polite to stare.”
Mr. Dawson smiled down at her, pressing his hand to hers as they turned. “I cannot blame him; you are the most radiant woman in the room.”
Edwina resisted the temptation to roll her eyes, but she just smiled politely again, begging for the end of the set. She continued to make polite conversation with Mr. Dawson, but as soon as the music ended, she curtseyed to him and looked about to find her father before the next set.
“Miss Haverton?” She groaned, turning again, ready to face another dance partner but, instead, found herself face to face with the man who had been leering at her. Her heart hammered in her chest as she looked up at him with wide eyes.
“I do not believe we have been introduced,” she breathed shakily, looking around her desperately for anyone that might be paying attention to her.
“I do not believe an introduction is necessary,” he argued, his dark eyes glimmering in the candlelight. He stepped closer to her, closer than appropriate in a crowded room.
“Sir, I do not believe that this is –” she protested as he took hold of her waist.
“If you speak out against me now, you will draw the looks of all the other guests tonight and be as much a laughingstock as your father. Is that what you want?” the man went on, reaching up to cup her bosom.
Horrified, she pulled back quickly, gasping. “How dare you!” she hissed.
He wagged his finger at her. “Tsk tsk. Laughingstock, remember?”
Clamping her mouth shut, she felt her eyes prickle with tears, backing away from the vile man as quickly as she could. She pushed through the other oblivious guests, confused and hurt that none of them witnessed the incident. She wanted to flee, find her father, and cry on his shoulder.
“Miss Haverton!” a voice called out, a woman this time. Edwina breathed a sigh of relief as she tried to weave between the guests to get to her.
“Miss Haverton, there you are,” the woman cooed, taking Edwina’s hand to pull her into the circle of girls. Edwina relaxed a little, casting glances over her shoulder, just in case the leering man came after her.
“You must ignore Mr. Turner,” the woman said, a perfect smirk plastered on her lips. “It is a right of passage for all debutants.”
“Does he accost everyone?” Edwina asked, horrified.
“If you are pretty,” she continued then turned to another young woman next to her. “Poor Polly here learned the hard way that she was not pretty.”
Edwina gasped in shock, wanting to say something to validate the stout girl, but Polly shrugged her ample shoulder. “It is true. I do not try to deny it.”
“See, we all know our place,” the first girl said.
“I do not believe I have gotten your name,” Edwina said, looking around the circle. “I apologize, I do not think I am familiar with any of you.”
“Well, we know you,” the first said smugly. “I am Lady Somersby, but you may call me Leticia. Polly here is Miss Astley, daughter of the Baron of Hartford, this is Mrs. Fenton, wife of Mr. Charles Fenton, son of the Earl of Huntington, and this is Miss Beasley.”
