Francis sat very upright, her hands properly locked in her lap, her expression hopefully composed.
There was nothing quite like being a wallflower, she decided, though truthfully, she knew part of her solitude was self-inflicted. No, she probably wasn’t as pretty as her sister—this she acknowledged, though they did still look quite alike. To start with, she’d always been more . . . buxom, but gentlemen actually seemed to appreciate that, and all along she’d recognized that neither her face nor her form was the problem. Almost from the beginning of her first season she’d realized the gentlemen who asked her to dance didn’t often ask again. She’d done her best this year to stay poised and keep quiet, making only polite small talk, but it wasn’t working.
Especially with the very handsome, elegant, intelligent, congenial—the list went on—Viscount Drury.
Oh, yes, he’d waltzed with her twice this evening, but she knew it was mainly to wheedle out of her information about Cecily, and quite frankly, that stung more than a little. He often played the gentleman and asked her to dance, which was kind of him, but his pity over her patent unpopularity wasn’t at all what she wanted. Still, every time he asked she agreed because it was . . . something . Not to mention he was a gifted dancer, whereas it wasn’t her forte, so she managed to look acceptably graceful when they took the floor together.
He wasn’t interested even though she was also the daughter of a duke and had exactly the same dowry. It was her . Not her looks, or her background—and that rankled more than anything. It was one matter to be disregarded because one was too stout, or too thin, or had an overlarge nose, but quite frankly, she found it even more mortifying to be perfectly acceptable as far as physical appearance went, but not desirable in other ways.
So, she decided as the slow swirl of dancers went by and laughter—from other people—rang in her ears, she was a pariah of her own making. What gentlemen found unattractive about her was her personality.
A humiliating reality.
She would suggest social failure as the epitaph to be engraved on her headstone, which might be needed quite soon, for if she had to stay in the corner with the dowagers for another moment, she’d just toss herself off the nearest convenient balcony. Eleanor rose, smiled as politely as possible at the assembled company, and excused herself, ignoring her grandmother’s disapproving look over her leaving in the middle of a conversation.
There were times when a young lady just needed a stiff glass of tepid champagne.
Where the devil is Cecily anyway? she thought as she moved toward the drinks table. Being stuck in the Purgatory of this ball would be much, much easier if she could at least have someone to talk to. Later she would sneak away and then send the carriage back once she was home.
Snatching a drink from a footman passing by with a tray, she wondered how she was going to stand her sister’s engagement party. Just the thought of that miserable upcoming event made her take a convulsive swallow from her glass. No doubt Lord Drury would be every inch the besotted fiancé and . . .
“Lady Eleanor.”
The voice of the subject of her thoughts made her jump, and unforgivably, she spilled a dash of champagne on his shoe as she whirled around. As if to punctuate her faux pas, the music came to a theatrical halt just then and a throng of milling couples left the floor. “I’m—I’m terribly sorry,” she stammered.
“I startled you. I beg your pardon. The fault is entirely mine.” His smile was gracious and he didn’t even glance downward at the now soiled toe of his formerly perfectly polished Hessian. “I was wondering if you had seen your sister.”
“Yes, indeed. She’s a little taller, her coloring fairer, though the family resemblance is definitely there between us, I’m told.” The tart words came out before she could stop them . . . and
There was nothing quite like being a wallflower, she decided, though truthfully, she knew part of her solitude was self-inflicted. No, she probably wasn’t as pretty as her sister—this she acknowledged, though they did still look quite alike. To start with, she’d always been more . . . buxom, but gentlemen actually seemed to appreciate that, and all along she’d recognized that neither her face nor her form was the problem. Almost from the beginning of her first season she’d realized the gentlemen who asked her to dance didn’t often ask again. She’d done her best this year to stay poised and keep quiet, making only polite small talk, but it wasn’t working.
Especially with the very handsome, elegant, intelligent, congenial—the list went on—Viscount Drury.
Oh, yes, he’d waltzed with her twice this evening, but she knew it was mainly to wheedle out of her information about Cecily, and quite frankly, that stung more than a little. He often played the gentleman and asked her to dance, which was kind of him, but his pity over her patent unpopularity wasn’t at all what she wanted. Still, every time he asked she agreed because it was . . . something . Not to mention he was a gifted dancer, whereas it wasn’t her forte, so she managed to look acceptably graceful when they took the floor together.
He wasn’t interested even though she was also the daughter of a duke and had exactly the same dowry. It was her . Not her looks, or her background—and that rankled more than anything. It was one matter to be disregarded because one was too stout, or too thin, or had an overlarge nose, but quite frankly, she found it even more mortifying to be perfectly acceptable as far as physical appearance went, but not desirable in other ways.
So, she decided as the slow swirl of dancers went by and laughter—from other people—rang in her ears, she was a pariah of her own making. What gentlemen found unattractive about her was her personality.
A humiliating reality.
She would suggest social failure as the epitaph to be engraved on her headstone, which might be needed quite soon, for if she had to stay in the corner with the dowagers for another moment, she’d just toss herself off the nearest convenient balcony. Eleanor rose, smiled as politely as possible at the assembled company, and excused herself, ignoring her grandmother’s disapproving look over her leaving in the middle of a conversation.
There were times when a young lady just needed a stiff glass of tepid champagne.
Where the devil is Cecily anyway? she thought as she moved toward the drinks table. Being stuck in the Purgatory of this ball would be much, much easier if she could at least have someone to talk to. Later she would sneak away and then send the carriage back once she was home.
Snatching a drink from a footman passing by with a tray, she wondered how she was going to stand her sister’s engagement party. Just the thought of that miserable upcoming event made her take a convulsive swallow from her glass. No doubt Lord Drury would be every inch the besotted fiancé and . . .
“Lady Eleanor.”
The voice of the subject of her thoughts made her jump, and unforgivably, she spilled a dash of champagne on his shoe as she whirled around. As if to punctuate her faux pas, the music came to a theatrical halt just then and a throng of milling couples left the floor. “I’m—I’m terribly sorry,” she stammered.
“I startled you. I beg your pardon. The fault is entirely mine.” His smile was gracious and he didn’t even glance downward at the now soiled toe of his formerly perfectly polished Hessian. “I was wondering if you had seen your sister.”
“Yes, indeed. She’s a little taller, her coloring fairer, though the family resemblance is definitely there between us, I’m told.” The tart words came out before she could stop them . . . and
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