An Imperfect Proposal by Hayley Ann Solomon Page A

shook their heads; she wanted to creep past her mama, engaged in conversation with Lord Sedgebrooke (doubtless telling him how delightful a partner she would be) and find some fresh air somewhere. She was engaged, after the quadrille and the bourrée to Mr. Ratchins. It was to be the waltz, at last, which lifted her spirits, somewhat, for there was nothing so fabulously exhilarating as the waltz, especially when the gentleman encircling your waist was altogether too attractive for one’s own good.
    Not that Mr. Ratchins fitted that category precisely, but one could be generous when one was waltzing, and overlook such small matters as protruding teeth and a collar starched far too stiffly for comfort. If it had only been the Earl of Devonport—that would be another matter entirely. Amaryllis suddenly knew why she was avoiding Lila. She did not want to hear her animadversions on this paragon. It was enough, surely, that she’d had to watch from the sidelines?
    Miss Trewellyn’s progress was stopped by Miss Baskerville, so Amaryllis breathed a little sigh and took her opportunity to escape. She gathered up her skirts and disappeared into the anteroom just off the main ballroom, then frowned as she saw Miss Caddington’s form silhouetted on the adjacent balcony. If Martha were to corner her here, she would delight in saying something catty and hurtful, and Amaryllis was in no mood for such sport. She therefore edged her way out of the antechamber and found herself in a dark suite of rooms that were obviously not intended for the use of the ball, for no tapers had been lit and only the firelight in the hearth lent a rosy glow to the vacant room.
    She sank back thankfully, though a little guiltily, into one of the winged chairs and listened, for a moment, to the first strains of the quadrille as the orchestra tuned up. It was uncustomary for her to be so sunk in gloom, for normally—when she was not being paraded like a prize pig on the marriage mart—she was cheerfulness itself. Her sunny nature and kind heart did not permit of a fit of the dismals, so busy was she in decocting potions, writing snippets for her diary—a wonderfully eclectic notebook of all matters ranging from Miss Marsham’s receipt for a head cold to the proper way of pressing flowers to the innermost yearnings of her heart. She also rode almost every day if it was fine, read feverishly from Hookham’s and Hatchard’s, and could often be found ascending the stacks at the Temple of the Muses, Finsbury Square, in search of bargains.
    This, indeed, was how she had met Lila, for Lila, too, was an avid reader and delighted in spending a comfortable day in front of the fire armed with a pile of books ranging from the Gothic to the most up-to-the-minute serials like The Athenaeum Weekly Review .
    Now, however, Amaryllis found it hard not to choke back her tears. Everyone was being perfectly kind, but she could hardly help being disheartened. Her family expected her to marry and had expended a fortune on two Seasons and a court appearance, and there was not the remotest prospect of anyone—not even stiff-necked Mr. Ratchins—obliging her with an offer.
    The strain was enormous. Every time her mama went to so much trouble to secure her a partner and her papa refused to relocate to their country seat—where she knew he would be happier—she felt responsible. Though not a word of reproach had been leveled at her, sometimes she felt her mother’s encouragement was a little hearty, and her dresser’s attempts at ringlets a smidgen desperate. Even dear, kind Papa’s face was a trifle too anxious as he asked whether she had met anyone interesting that day.
    Amaryllis, when she dreamed of growing up and marriage, had never thought out what this might mean, how burdensome would be the task of finding a husband for herself. It had never occurred to her that she might not like the man she was to marry.