newcomer with curiosity, interest or admiration. Beatrice noticed a few gentlemen looking her way and, not being acquainted with any of them, averted her eyes. But she could not stop the warmth creeping up to her cheeks because of all this attention.
Hours ago when she had left Mrs. Parton’s town house, she had been satisfied with her appearance and especially her lovely pink gown. Others must have found her acceptable as well, for during the play’s intermission, several gentlemen had rushed to Lord Blakemore’s theatre box for an introduction. But at Mrs. Parton’s instruction, Lord Blakemore fended them all off. “Not our sort,” the lady had insisted, with the earl and countess adding their agreement. Indeed, from appearances alone, Beatrice had approved the decision without qualification and had even noticed Lord Greystone’s confirmation. Still, it was not an easy matter to reject such obvious admiration, even though she had no doubt each and every man would retreat upon learning that she had no dowry.
With that reminder the joy that had filled her as she ascended the staircase vanished. Only an exceptional gentleman would overlook that undesirable situation. And if it were not enough to ruin her prospects, there was always Melly and his wastrel ways.
Her thoughts had become morose, so she decisively shook them off and looked to Mrs. Parton to guide her for whatever came next. The lady was in the process of dismissing Lord Greystone, voicing all due appreciation for his escort from the theatre. He bowed to them both, then strode away as if eager to get someplace else. Beatrice felt the loss of his presence, but buoyed her spirits by surveying her surroundings.
They moved deeper into the room, which was furnished with exquisite oak and mahogany furniture upholstered in blue-and-gold brocade. A mahogany hearth served as the centerpiece, and the requisite painting of the family seat in Hampshire hung above the mantel. Three groupings of wing chairs and settees were arranged about the chamber, while red and white roses arranged in tall, golden vases sat on occasional tables, filling the room with their heady fragrances.
But soon the aroma of the roasting meat Beatrice had noticed upon arrival crowded out the scent of flowers, making her mouth water and her stomach demand satisfaction. Surely the meal would be announced soon, or she would have to find a place to sit down for all her dizziness.
“Mrs. Parton.” A pleasant-looking gentleman approached and bowed over the lady’s hand. “How lovely you are this evening. One may always depend upon you to brighten any room.” To his credit his gaze did not leave Mrs. Parton’s face, although anyone could see Beatrice standing close beside her.
“Why, such flattery, Winston, but I thank you nonetheless.” Mrs. Parton’s smile held nothing but approval, which piqued Beatrice’s interest. “How well you look, my boy. I take it you are finding your footing without difficulty in the House of Lords?”
So the gentleman bore a title. Beatrice found her curiosity, if not her interest, growing. As Mrs. Parton had said, he did look well. Quite handsome, in fact, upon further scrutiny. Above medium height, more than a head taller than Beatrice, with blond hair and gray-green eyes, he exuded both confidence and boyishness. His black suit and pristine white shirt and cravat gave him an air of gravity, although not too severe. All in all he appeared to be everything proper in a gentleman. Yet Beatrice felt no stir of emotions as when she had met Lord Greystone. Perhaps such feelings were more of a hindrance than a reason to hope that a gentleman might find her appealing.
“Yes, madam, I am growing comfortable there. I have a mentor in Lord Bennington, which helps more than you can imagine.” Now he glanced at Beatrice, but so quickly she almost missed it.
“Ah, yes, I heartily approve of Bennington as someone who can guide you.” Mrs. Parton chuckled in her merry
Hours ago when she had left Mrs. Parton’s town house, she had been satisfied with her appearance and especially her lovely pink gown. Others must have found her acceptable as well, for during the play’s intermission, several gentlemen had rushed to Lord Blakemore’s theatre box for an introduction. But at Mrs. Parton’s instruction, Lord Blakemore fended them all off. “Not our sort,” the lady had insisted, with the earl and countess adding their agreement. Indeed, from appearances alone, Beatrice had approved the decision without qualification and had even noticed Lord Greystone’s confirmation. Still, it was not an easy matter to reject such obvious admiration, even though she had no doubt each and every man would retreat upon learning that she had no dowry.
With that reminder the joy that had filled her as she ascended the staircase vanished. Only an exceptional gentleman would overlook that undesirable situation. And if it were not enough to ruin her prospects, there was always Melly and his wastrel ways.
Her thoughts had become morose, so she decisively shook them off and looked to Mrs. Parton to guide her for whatever came next. The lady was in the process of dismissing Lord Greystone, voicing all due appreciation for his escort from the theatre. He bowed to them both, then strode away as if eager to get someplace else. Beatrice felt the loss of his presence, but buoyed her spirits by surveying her surroundings.
They moved deeper into the room, which was furnished with exquisite oak and mahogany furniture upholstered in blue-and-gold brocade. A mahogany hearth served as the centerpiece, and the requisite painting of the family seat in Hampshire hung above the mantel. Three groupings of wing chairs and settees were arranged about the chamber, while red and white roses arranged in tall, golden vases sat on occasional tables, filling the room with their heady fragrances.
But soon the aroma of the roasting meat Beatrice had noticed upon arrival crowded out the scent of flowers, making her mouth water and her stomach demand satisfaction. Surely the meal would be announced soon, or she would have to find a place to sit down for all her dizziness.
“Mrs. Parton.” A pleasant-looking gentleman approached and bowed over the lady’s hand. “How lovely you are this evening. One may always depend upon you to brighten any room.” To his credit his gaze did not leave Mrs. Parton’s face, although anyone could see Beatrice standing close beside her.
“Why, such flattery, Winston, but I thank you nonetheless.” Mrs. Parton’s smile held nothing but approval, which piqued Beatrice’s interest. “How well you look, my boy. I take it you are finding your footing without difficulty in the House of Lords?”
So the gentleman bore a title. Beatrice found her curiosity, if not her interest, growing. As Mrs. Parton had said, he did look well. Quite handsome, in fact, upon further scrutiny. Above medium height, more than a head taller than Beatrice, with blond hair and gray-green eyes, he exuded both confidence and boyishness. His black suit and pristine white shirt and cravat gave him an air of gravity, although not too severe. All in all he appeared to be everything proper in a gentleman. Yet Beatrice felt no stir of emotions as when she had met Lord Greystone. Perhaps such feelings were more of a hindrance than a reason to hope that a gentleman might find her appealing.
“Yes, madam, I am growing comfortable there. I have a mentor in Lord Bennington, which helps more than you can imagine.” Now he glanced at Beatrice, but so quickly she almost missed it.
“Ah, yes, I heartily approve of Bennington as someone who can guide you.” Mrs. Parton chuckled in her merry
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