She pushed the curl off her shoulder and a wide smile appeared on her face. “I suppose it’s only fair to tell you my name after you’ve been so kind to share yours,” she replied. “I’m Frances, Frances Wharton.”
“Thank you, milady.” He bowed. There. Not only had she not been offended by the question, she’d bestowed a gorgeous smile on him. So far at least, Frances Wharton seemed like a nice young lady indeed.
Lucas left the room and pulled the door closed behind him. He hadn’t exited a bit too soon, either. James was just coming out of the other bedchamber and Lucas joined him on his way back down the staircase to see to the next coach.
Pulling it from his pocket, he tossed the coin in the air and caught it in his fist. Frances Wharton? She hadn’t used the word ‘lady,’ yet she must be of the Quality or she wouldn’t have been invited to the house party. Not to mention she was dressed as a lady, spoke like a lady, and had been treated like a lady by Theodora. Interesting, then, that she hadn’t included that word when telling him her name. She also hadn’t felt it necessary to blurt out her father’s name. Wharton? Hmm. Seemed Lucas knew a baron with that surname. A grin spread across his face. Yes, indeed. Frances Wharton might just be one young lady to keep an eye on.
Chapter Five
That night at the long table in Lord Clayton’s elegant dining room, the empty seat to Frances’s right caused her no end of concern. Her mother sat on the other side of the void, watching Frances while smiling and nodding like an inhabitant of Bedlam. Mama clearly knew something that pleased her about the seat’s future occupant. Which could only mean one thing. Sir Reginald was on the way. The theory stood to reason. He wasn’t occupying any of the other seats at the dinner table and Frances’s fervent wish that he had taken ill and would not be coming at all was dashed when Lady Clayton said in a loud voice for the entire table to hear, “Sir Reginald should be here any moment.”
Frances’s heart sank. She had already tried to feign illness before dinner, believing that to be a much better alternative than pretending to be a shrew. Being a shrew would involve theatrics and was certain to be tiring, while feigning illness involved lying in one’s bed and reading, and what could be better than that?
Despite Frances’s fake coughing, back of her hand to her forehead, and plenty of moan-sighing, her mother would have none of it. Mama had ordered Frances to dress for dinner and prepare to be charming and friendly. Mama had also reminded Frances she was not, under any circumstances, to mention anything about either the Employment Bill or politics of any sort.
Frances had reluctantly allowed poor, beleaguered Albina to help her dress all the while seriously doubting whether she could be charming or friendly, let alone both, particularly if Sir Reginald was her dinner companion. How would she ever pretend to be interested when the man began telling a story about his feet or something equally mind-numbing? Abigail had always been good at listening to other people’s boring stories and feigning interest. Frances, however, tended to alternate looks that had been described by her mother as a trapped hare and a sleepy parson. But Frances couldn’t help it. Boring stories were boring stories and Sir Reginald Francis had proven himself to be a successive offender.
For the thousandth time, Frances wondered why her mother simply didn’t give up on her and save the dowry money for Abigail. Abigail was charming. Abigail was friendly. Abigail was looking forward to marriage and running a household and having a family. Abigail never wanted to discuss politics. Abigail was much more like the other young women at the house party. Such ill luck that Abigail wasn’t the elder of the two of them.
Frances glanced around at the other occupants of the dining table. It was mostly comprised of young ladies and their mothers. In fact, now that Frances considered it, the table was noticeably lacking in eligible gentlemen. Not that she minded as far as courtship was concerned, but she suspected the other young ladies had (like Mama) come here hoping to find more eligibles. Frances mentally shrugged. Normally, she’d be interested in talking politics with the eligible gentlemen, but since she’d already promised Mama not to broach the subject, she supposed it didn’t matter how many eligibles were here. She seriously doubted the other young women and their mamas felt the same, however.
Frances took another surreptitious glance around the table. There were several lovely young women here. She recognized each one of them. Like her, they were all the outcasts of the Season. The ones who hadn’t made matches at least.
With one notable exception.
Lady Julianna Montgomery.
Lady Julianna was the daughter of the Duke of Montlake and the sister of Frances’s friend, Mary. Lady Julianna was gorgeous, with blond hair and light-green eyes. She was also tall and thin and proper. In fact, she was so wealthy, popular, and beautiful that the Times had followed her debut and subsequent courtships. Abigail and Mama had been positively on tenterhooks reading the stories. Frances remembered bits and pieces of their gossip. Apparently, the year before last, when Lady Julianna had made her debut, there had been rumors that she’d caught the eye of the elusive Duke of Worthington, but no one had truly believed that. Worthington was dashing and exceedingly handsome by all accounts, but he was also an established rake and a notorious gambler. He’d never been one to frequent the events of the ton. Still, the rumors had been given some credence. After all, if Worthington was planning to finally marry, Julianna Montgomery certainly would be the sort of young
