If I Fall by Kate Noble Page B

blushed prettily. A tactic that allowed others to draw their own conclusions, or so Phillippa said.
    The truth of the matter was, Signor Carpenini had been invited to the Forresters, a few years ago, while waiting for his ship to leave for Italy from Portsmouth. And while Bridget—her nerves not failing her back then—played pianoforte, Sarah had sung a small, soft tune, the most that her gentle voice would allow. And Signor Carpenini did offer his instructive services—to Bridget, whose skill at the piano far exceeded Sarah’s at singing. But he was leaving for Italy, and as such, Bridget could not take advantage of his services—at least, until he came back to England.
    It was unkind to steal her sister’s glory on this one small point. But it wasn’t as if
she
were the one to stretch facts. One leading statement from Phillippa and the gentlemen around them started fabricating the story in their own minds. Apparently, when building a reputation, only just enough information was necessary, and then everyone could draw their own conclusions. It was how one built fascination, Phillippa said.
    Yes, she truly had become their Golden Lady.
    Sarah’s eyes scanned the room for her sister and found her standing by a wall, with her mother. She had a plate of untouched food and a surprisingly wistful, sad expression. Sarah wished she would taste the food at least, and try to find a little joy in this outing. The problem was Bridget had made little impression so far in her first Season out. And while Sarah had tried to include Bridget in her newfound popularity, for some unfathomable reason, Bridget wanted nothing to do with it. Which was unfortunate, because Bridget was lovely and accomplished and funny—when she wanted to be.
    Sarah was still staring at her sister, when Bridget turned her head and caught Sarah’s eye. Sarah raised her glass ofchampagne in a gesture of acknowledgement, only to see her sister’s face go from lost and unhappy to a hateful scowl.
    Sarah sighed. The scowl was not unexpected.
    But instead of dwelling on the unpleasant, Sarah decided to focus on the much more pleasant expression on the Comte de Le Bon’s face, as well as how his hand had somehow stayed delightfully on her arm.
    He was not the most handsome man Sarah had ever seen. He was likely only the second or third most handsome. But far be it from Sarah to think in such shallow terms. He was just
so
interesting, every vowel coming out of his mouth an accented seduction. And he did say some very delightful things.
    When he wasn’t talking about Burma, that is.
    He had been in the Indies over the Little Season, away from the gossip of the Event. Which, silently, Sarah had to acknowledge was one of his best attributes. As silent as the world had been on the topic of the Event ever since Phillippa took Sarah under her wing, it was still nice to have an admirer who could not have that in the back of his mind.
    So, while the Comte de Le Bon continued to amuse her, little did Sarah realize that her evening was about to become infinitely worse.
    “Ah-ah-ahem,” came the hoarse clearing from the throat of the gentleman who had come to stand directly in front of her. She looked up—not the easiest task—past the obviously corseted waist of Lord Seton.
    “My Golden Lady,” he said addressing Sarah. “I believe this is my dance?”
    Sarah looked at him askance, then at her dance card.
    “I do not believe it is, Lord Seton,” Sarah demurred. Indeed, her card did not indicate Lord Seton, whom she was sure she would have remembered giving a dance (since she had sworn to never do so again, since that first disastrous party when he pitied her with a dance and a groping leer), but instead Sir Braithwaite. But Braithwaite was nowhere to be seen.
    Phillippa glanced over her shoulder and read her card, her eyebrow going up at the name there.
    “It is, I assure you—I have Braithwaite’s marker for it.” And Lord Seton produced from his terribly