As Lady Woodrow signaled to the orchestra for the dancing to begin, Mr. Palmer returned from the far side of the room and claimed Helen’s hand. “Miss Davenport, I believe this set is mine.”
With a light touch, he escorted her to their places. They stood across from one another as the musicians struck up a tune. The partners bowed to one another, and in groups of four, walked in a circle clockwise. Helen giggled. She felt like a young maid of sixteen once again, wracking her memory for the dance’s pattern.
Does Mr. Marcellus care for dancing?What type of partner would he be?
* * *
Helen’s stomach clenched. There were only three sets remaining and Mr. Marcellus still had yet to make his entrance. She recognized the closing notes of the quadrille.
Her chest grew uncomfortably tight. Had Mr. Marcellus changed his mind? Maybe she wasn’t the sort of woman he envisioned as a proper wife after all. She forced the ends of her lips to remain upright.
At least I haven’t wasted too much time pining for him. I should never have set my hopes so high.
Her father’s worried eyes appraised her. Helen hurriedly swept her feathered fan in front of her face, not letting him see her distress. Aunt Sarah pursed her lips. Uncle William checked the time on his watch fob. They continued to speak of books and neutral topics.
Why are they so nervous? Or is there something that they are keeping from me?
Her mind began to envision one unfortunate scenario after another. She needed air.
“Papa, my throat’s become parched. I shall return shortly.” She slipped away before he could reply.
Weaving her way around the parties of chatting guests, she maintained a close distance to the wall.
Keeping her ears sharp, she listened to snippets of their conversations.
“The Cliff Household can certainly expect a plethora of callers over the coming days.”
“Miss Lyons has her cap set on Lord Burley, the Earl of Ashwood. She’ll have a nasty surprise waiting when she finds out the sorry state of his finances.”
“Shall we make a wager? Which household will announce an engagement first, the Cliffs or Hunters?”
Her eyes traveled to the ballroom’s door one last time. She breathed deeply.
Why am I so bothered by Mr. Marcellus’s lack of appearance? It is not as if I hold a tendre for him or anyone else.
She reached the refreshment table, and just as she was about to help herself to a glass of lemonade, she froze. The temperature of the room dropped ten degrees, and her stays became uncomfortably tight. Standing a mere few feet from her was Mr. Chapman.
Had he seen her? Could she still avoid him? Quickly backing away, Helen kept her chin lowered and snapped her fan open.
The sound of the crack caught the attention of her former suitor.
“Miss Davenport. I’m shocked to see you here,” Mr. Chapman said, his voice sardonic.
Eight
Chapter 8
Helen turned and curtsied, burying her discountenance beneath a forced smile. “Mr. Chapman.”
Behind him stood a gaggle of three other gentlemen. Helen, however, kept refusing to meet their gazes.
Mr. Chapman scoffed lightly. “Men, you would do well to steer clear of this chit. She lacks any breeding or connections to speak of and is doomed to the future of—”
She clenched the base of her fan tighter. Her body warmed.
“—a penniless spinster,” he sputtered derisively.
She took three steps backward and brushed the edge of the table. Mr. Chapman inched closer to her, his breath reeking of strong spirits. “Why, I even heard from the Davenports’ neighbors that the chit has made inquiries to them about her entering service as their gov—”