Yes, she was in hell. But it was a hell she was going to have to endure. After all, what choice did a young lady of twenty-three have? This was her fifth Season. Her fifth year of trying to find a suitable husband. Her fifth year of being ignored by all the attractive eligible men, who flocked round the pretty girls like bees around the honeypot. Her fifth year of being pursued by men like Lord Halthorpe, who were prepared to overlook her flaws and focus instead on the substantial financial sum they would acquire as part of her marriage settlement.
While being left on the shelf was becoming increasingly likely, it was also becoming increasingly attractive. If it was a choice between being left on the shelf or marrying Lord Halthorpe, then Hazel would happily climb up on to the highest shelf and remain there for the rest of her life.
She smiled to herself, imagining what her shelf would be like. It would be a delightful refuge away from everyone who had ever accused her of not being graceful enough, pretty enough or suitably demure enough to attract a man. It would contain all the latest scientific journals and books on astronomy, chemistry and physics. And she could sit up there all day long, reading to her heart’s content, without anyone passing judgement on what was or wasn’t correct behaviour for a genteel young lady.
Yes, the shelf was starting to appear rather enticing.
Lord Halthorpe sent her a gap-toothed smile. ‘Good to see you smiling, my dear. I take it you’re enjoying this dance.’
‘Mmm...’ she replied, doing her best to avoid telling a lie.
‘I think we might be in for some rain later,’ he murmured in her ear, causing her to draw back quickly to stop his walrus moustache from tickling her cheek.
The weather. That old standby for social chit-chat. Hazel suppressed a sigh and tried to ignore the smell of brandy and cigars coming off his breath. She was at least going to have to try to make polite conversation. Especially as her mother was watching from the edge of the dance floor, concern etched on her face.
‘Yes.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘Earlier today I noticed nimbus clouds were moving in, suggesting we’re in for some rain within the next twenty-four hours, and the drop in the atmospheric pressure probably means there will be an increase in the strength of the wind as well. Perhaps not storm conditions, but definitely a weather event of some significance.’
Hazel knew she shouldn’t do it. Hadn’t her mother told her often enough that men do not like clever women? She had promised her that tonight she would try, really, really hard, to act suitably mindless, but oh, the tedium that came with talking about the weather, how pretty the flowers looked or how lovely the ballroom had been decorated. Just once, she wished she could have a conversation with a man that didn’t cause her to feel she was being crushed under the momentous weight of boredom.
Lord Halthorpe looked back at her with a familiar expression of suppressed irritation, one that confirmed her mother’s claim that showing any signs of intelligence was not the way to capture a man’s heart.
‘Hmm, yes,’ he mumbled, his strained smile as artificially held in place as his waxed moustache. ‘I say, that’s a lovely ribbon you’ve got in your hair, my dear. Matches your blue eyes.’
Hazel replied with an equally false smile, then joined him in wincing as her feet once again crushed his toes.
Poor Lord Halthorpe had now joined the ranks of men whose feet had been reduced to a state resembling mashed potatoes under Hazel’s unruly feet. Making mindless chit-chat wasn’t the only social skill she had failed to master. When it came to dancing, having the proverbial two left feet would be a vast improvement on the clodhopping hooves she possessed.
‘I’m so sorry, Lord Halthorpe.’
‘Not at all, my dear. My fault entirely,’ he said through gritted teeth.
Hazel had to give him some credit for his high pain threshold. Or was it simply that he knew how much she was worth? Perhaps the thought of getting his hands on the dowry that came with marrying the Earl of Springfeld’s plain, frumpy eldest daughter was enough to make him impervious to pain.
Hazel knew that her dowry was by far her most attractive feature for men like Lord Halthorpe. It certainly wasn’t her looks he was attracted to. She was painfully aware that her nose was too long, her face too round and plump, and as for her hair, birds’ nests were more orderly than the unfashionable riot of curls that passed for her crowning glory. The attributes of which she was most proud were not the ones men generally admired. She could quickly calculate mathematical problems in her head, could grasp scientific principles faster than any man she had met and was a quick learner in all academic subjects in general. But who cared about that?
Finally, the waltz came to an end. Lord Halthorpe bowed and escorted her off the crowded dance floor.
‘Allow me to get you some refreshments,’ he said with another bow, then limped off as quickly as he could into the milling crowd. More likely, he was heading for a private spot where he could investigate the state of his mangled feet.
Her mother joined her, smiling her encouragement. ‘I think you’ve made a catch there, Hazel. Lord Halthorpe seems quite taken with you. I’m confident that this Season you will most definitely get a proposal.’
Hazel had to admire her mother’s optimism. ‘We all know what he’s really taken with and it’s not me. In fact, I suspect everyone in this room knows the only reason he’s dancing with me is because he can think of no better way of settling the substantial debts on his estate other than marrying an heiress.’
Her mother frowned. ‘Don’t
