A Matter of Class by Mary Balogh Page B

solution to his problems than this.
    She loved him. She loved both him and Mama. She would make all this up to them if she possibly could.
    She smiled at Mrs. Mason.
    â€œIf you do not mind, ma’am,” she said, “I will talk with some of your other guests and perhaps retain at least some of their names for future reference. Mrs. Duffy over there is your sister, is she not? And her daughter is Helen?”
    As soon as Mrs. Mason, looking very pleased indeed, confirmed the identification, Annabelle crossed the room
to those two ladies and their group and began a conversation with them. She moved from group to group for the next hour, speaking with almost everyone in turn.
    She actually rather enjoyed herself. A north country accent might be vulgar by her father’s definition, but it was attractive to her ears. She liked the hearty laughter these people did not even try to restrain when something amused them—and much did.
    She liked them, and she felt that they liked her—or that they were prepared to do so after getting to know her a little better. Surely many of them, if not all, knew the story of her elopement with Thomas Till, but no one shunned her or looked coldly or disdainfully at her.
    Her mother was also moving about the room, on Reginald Mason’s arm for a while and then alone.
    Her betrothed, Annabelle saw with a twinge of unease, had moved from her mother to her father, who had been sitting in haughty isolation, bowed and scraped over by everyone who passed close by him but approached by none except the servant who fetched him tea and cakes.
    Reginald Mason first stood addressing her papa and then sat in the seat next to his. He was talking and smiling.
Her father appeared to be listening, a curl of distaste to his lips.
    Oh, dear, was this wise?
    â€œLady Annabelle,” one fresh-faced, gap-toothed, pretty young girl asked—Annabelle tried in vain to remember her name, “what is your wedding dress like? Are you allowed to say ?”
    â€œI am not,” Annabelle said. “But I can tell you how I stood on a pedestal for what felt like ten hours while
    I was being fitted for it, being turned and prodded and poked as though I were a turkey roasting on the fire.”
    There was a burst of hearty laughter, and she proceeded to embellish the story.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter what the dress looks like, lass,” one of Reginald’s maternal cousins said—he was Ha rold? Horace? Hector? “You would look just grand in a sack.”
    Another burst of laughter.
    Papa and Reginald Mason were gone from their chairs. And from the room.
    Both of them.
    Together?

    P eople had been hurt, Reggie had realized earlier while awaiting the arrival at the house of his betrothed with Havercroft and the countess. Four people in particular. He had known it from the start, of course, but actually seeing it was different from imagining it.
    His father was ecstatic over the turn of events. But he was not a heartless man. Far from it. Despite his wrath over Reggie’s extravagance and his declaration that if his son was unhappy with his imminent marriage then he deserved to be, actually his son and his wife meant more to him than all his wealth or ambitions combined. Reggie was quite secure in that knowledge. His father would be miserable with regret if it turned out that the marriage he had insisted upon really was an unhappy one.
    So would both mothers. They were very different in personality: his mother openly warm and loving, Lady Havercroft more cool and reserved. But he did not doubt that they both deeply loved their children and would suffer greatly if they believed those children to be doomed to unhappiness.
    Reggie felt the burden of guilt over having exposed these three people to anxiety. It was time to set their
minds at least partially at ease. It was time openly to reconcile himself to the fact that he was going to spend the rest of his natural life with Lady