Kit smiled. “Yes, it is quite new to me also.”
“Are not the ladies’ gowns beautiful?”
“Yes, very,” Kit agreed. “So many beautiful colours.”
“Kit, my dear, here is Lord Norwood, wishing to be allowed to dance with you. Give him your card, my dear,” said Rose, smiling meaningfully at Kit.
Thomas, Lord Norwood, bowed punctiliously over her hand. His fair hair was elaborately pomaded and carefully coaxed into the “Nonpareil’ style. He wore knee breeches of a nice shade of biscuit, a heavily embroidered waistcoat and a coat which fitted tightly across narrow shoulders; his shirt points were so high and so heavily starched he could barely turn his head. His neckcloth was a complicated affair involving several knots and loops. Added to this was a collection of fobs, pins and a quizzing glass. All in all, Lord Norwood appeared the very epitome of a dandy.
Kit handed her card over, hiding her reluctance. She had been hinting Lord Norwood away for several days now, but he seemed utterly impervious to her hints. She was not sure whether it was impregnable self-consequence which enabled him to overlook her indifference, or whether he had some other motive for making her the unwilling object of his attentions—a wager or some such. For unwilling she was: her plans did not allow for friendships of any sort, male or female. Her promise to her father was her paramount concern.
Lord Norwood scribbled his name on her card, bowed gracefully and handed it back, saying in world-weary accents, “Miss Singleton, my night is complete. The joy of securing my name on your dance card is all I have hoped for, or even dreamed of.”
Kit smiled sweetly. “Does this mean we do not actually need to dance, then, now that your name is safely on my card?”
He blinked in surprise, then laughed indulgently. “Such pretty wit,” he murmured. “I look forward to our dance.” He bowed again and disappeared into the throng.
“You are so lucky,” whispered the girl next to her. “He is very handsome.”
“Mmm, yes,” agreed Kit. “He is handsome.”
“And he dresses so beautifully.”
“Yes.”
“I think he likes you,” the girl whispered coyly.
“No,” said Kit thoughtfully. “I don’t think he does. I must confess I am quite at a loss to know what he sees in me at all.” She frowned as she noticed Lord Norwood disappear into one of the anterooms. It was one of the rooms reserved for those who wished to play cards, rather than dance.
“Oh, but—” began the girl.
Kit smiled quickly. “No, no. Take no notice of my foolishness,” she said. “I have a touch of the headache, that is all. I am sure Lord Norwood is everything you say he is. And I am very lucky to have been asked to dance with him. Now, I have been meaning to say, ever since you sat down, what a very pretty dress you are wearing. And such an interesting reticule. Wherever did you get it?”
Successfully distracted, the girl entered into a discussion of clothes and the various shops she and her mama had searched to obtain just the right fabric. As she extolled the delights of the Pantheon Bazaar, Kit’s attention wandered.
Lord Norwood was not the only man who had shown Kit a degree of flattering attention and her unexpected popularity disturbed her. It was not as if she was anything out of the ordinary—at least, she was, but nobody in London knew about her unconventional background, so as far as appearances went, she looked very much the part of any young lady making her come-out.
And it wasn’t as if she was beautiful or anything; there were many much prettier and more attractive girls who had been brought out that season, not to mention several diamonds of the first water. Kit had planned to move through London society with barely a ripple, attracting little notice. Anonymity was vital to the success of her plans. To this end she had tried to ensure that her personality, in public at least, appeared fairly bland and colourless. And she had certainly made no effort to attract male attention; in fact, she had tried very hard to deflect it.
And yet almost from the date of her arrival in London, she had been solicited to dance, invited to go driving, had flowers sent to her, and so on. Even the ladies had been exceptionally friendly, inviting her to soirees, musical afternoons, for walks in the park, to balls, routs and pleasure expeditions; in short, to all the many social events on the calendar of the London ton.
All this, for an unknown girl, sponsored into society by her not particularly distinguished “aunt”. Perhaps this was the reason people referred to “polite society”…?
“He’s just come in and don’t you think, Miss Singleton, that he’s the most elegant-looking man you’ve ever seen?”
Kit glanced across to where her young friend was looking. A knot of people stood in the entrance, exchanging greetings. Only one man stood out of the crowd, as far as Kit was concerned; a tall dark man in severely cut evening clothes. Elegant would certainly describe the clothes, Kit thought, but as for the man himself…
He stood out like a battle-scarred tomcat in a sea of well-fed tabbies. Tall, lean, rangy, sombre. Detached. A little wary and yet certain of his prowess. His eyes ranged over the colourful throng. Kit wished she could see the expression in them. His very stance expressed the view that he could not care the snap of his fingers for the lot of them.
He looked more like a predator than a guest.
His hair was dark, midnight dark and thick, she thought, though cropped quite brutally close; not quite the Windswept, not quite the Brutus. A style of his own, Kit thought, or perhaps he disdained to follow fashion.
She wondered who he was. He did not seem to fit in this colourful, pleasure-seeking crowd. He stood, a man apart. Indifferent.
His face was unfashionably bronzed, the bones beneath the skin sculpted fine and hard. A long aquiline nose, just slightly off centre. A long lean jaw ending in a square, unyielding chin.
Not elegant: arresting.
His mouth was firm, resolute, unsmiling. She wondered what it would take to make him smile.
A woman hastened to greet him: their hostess, Lady Fanny Parsons. Kit watched him bend over her hand. He was not a man accustomed to bowing—oh, he was graceful enough, but there was a certain hesitation, she noticed, a careless indifference.
Lady Fanny was laughing and flirting. As Kit watched, the man shrugged a pair of very broad shoulders. The hard mouth quirked in a self-deprecatory grimace. She wondered what they were discussing.
“Miss Singleton?” came the youthful voice at her elbow. “Is he not the most divinely beautiful man you have ever seen?”
Kit blinked. Elegant she could accept. Striking, certainly. Even a little intimidating. But divinely beautiful? Never.
She turned to her young friend, only to find her looking at some other, quite different man, a very pretty young fellow in a pale blue velvet coat, striped stockings and pantaloons of the palest primrose. Sir Primrose had been standing beside her man of darkness, Kit realised. She wanted to ask her young friend if she knew who the dark stranger was. Such a distinctive man would surely be well known.
“Who is—?”
But he had disappeared.
Just then, Lord Norwood came to claim his dance with Kit. And soon the music started and Kit was too busy dancing to think of anything except the delightful sensation of being a young girl at a fine London ball.
She would think about the tall dark man later.
“Hugo Devenish! How very unexpected,” gushed Lady Fanny Parsons, surging forward in a froth of satin and lace. “I was certain you would ignore my invitation as you usually do, you wicked