“I’d rather not, thank you,” Sarah replied tightly, finally hauling her personality out of whatever hole it had just jumped into. But Iris didn’t hear her. She’d already turned her back and was making her way toward Lady Edith. Sarah was left alone in the corner, as awkward as a jilted bride.

And that—of course—was when Hugh Prentice arrived.

Chapter Six

The strange thing was, Sarah thought she was angry.

She thought she was furious with Iris, who ought to have been more sensitive to the feelings of others. If Iris had felt the need to call her selfish, at the very least she could have done so in a more private setting.

And then to abandon her! Sarah did understand the need to intercept Lady Edith before Daisy descended upon her, but still, Iris should have said she was sorry.

But then, as Sarah stood in her corner, wondering how long she could pretend that she had not noticed Lord Hugh’s arrival, she took an unexpected breath.

And choked back a sob.

Apparently she was something other than angry, and she was in grave danger of crying, right here in the crowded Fensmore drawing room.

She turned swiftly, determined to examine the large, gloomy portrait that had been keeping her company. The subject appeared to be an unpleasant gentleman from Flanders, seventeenth century, if Sarah’s eye for fashion was correct. How he managed to look so proud in that ridiculous pleated collar she would never know, but he was staring down his beaky nose in a manner that told her clearly that none of his cousins would dare to call him selfish to his face, and if they did, he would not cry about it.

Sarah curled her lip and glared at him. It was probably a testament to the skill of the artist that he seemed to glare right back at her.

“Has the gentleman done something to offend?”

It was Hugh Prentice. Sarah knew his voice well enough by now. Honoria must have sent him over. She could not imagine why he might seek out her company otherwise.

They had promised to be civil, not eager.

She turned. He was standing about two feet from her, impeccably dressed for supper. Except for his cane. It was scuffed and scratched, the wood grain dull from overuse. Sarah wasn’t sure why she found this so interesting. Surely Lord Hugh traveled with a valet. His boots had been buffed to a high shine, and his cravat was expertly tied. Why would his cane be denied the same careful treatment?

“Lord Hugh,” she said, relieved that her voice sounded almost normal as she offered a small curtsy.

He didn’t say anything right away. He turned back to the portrait, his chin tilted up as his eyes swept over it. Sarah was glad he was not looking at her with such examination; she was not sure she could manage another dissection of her faults so soon after the first.

“That collar looks most uncomfortable,” Lord Hugh said.

“That was my first thought as well,” Sarah replied, before she remembered that she did not like him, and more to the point, he was her burden for the evening.

“I expect we should be glad that we live in modern times.”

She did not respond; it was not the sort of statement that required it. Lord Hugh continued to scrutinize the painting, at one point leaning in, presumably to examine the brushwork. Sarah did not know if he’d realized she needed time to compose herself. She could not imagine that he had; he didn’t seem the type of man to notice such things. Either way, she was grateful. By the time he turned to face her, the choking feeling in her chest had eased, and she was no longer in danger of embarrassing herself in front of several dozen of her cousin’s most important wedding guests.

“The wine is very good tonight, I’m told,” she said. It was an abrupt start to conversation, but it was polite and innocuous, and most importantly, it was the first thing that had popped into her head.

“You’re told?” Lord Hugh echoed.

“I haven’t had any myself,” Sarah explained. An awkward pause, and then: “Actually, no one told me. But Lord Chatteris is renowned for his cellars. I cannot imagine the wine would be anything but good.”

Good heavens, this was a stilted conversation. But no matter; Sarah would soldier on. She would not shirk her duties tonight. If Honoria looked her way; if Iris looked her way—

No one would be able to say that she had not kept her promises.

“I try not to drink in the company of the Smythe-Smiths,” Lord Hugh said, almost offhandedly. “It rarely ends well for me.”

Sarah gasped.

“I jest,” he said.

“Of course,” she replied quickly, mortified to have been revealed as so unsophisticated. She should have got the joke. She would have done, if she weren’t still so upset about Iris.

Dear Lord, she said to herself (and Anyone Else who might be listening), please bring this evening to an end with uncanny speed.

“Isn’t it interesting,” Lord Hugh asked slowly, “all that is wrought by societal convention?”

Sarah turned to him, even though she knew she’d never be able to discern his meaning from his expression. He tilted his head to the side, the movement rearranging the shadows on his impassive face.

He was handsome, Sarah realized in a strange burst of awareness. It wasn’t just the color of his eyes. It was the way he looked at a person, unwavering and sometimes unnerving. It lent him an air of intensity that was difficult to ignore. And his mouth—he rarely smiled, or at least he rarely smiled at her, but there was something rather wry about it. She supposed some people might not find that attractive, but she . . .

Did.

Dear Lord, she tried again, forget uncanny. Nothing less than the supernatural would be speedy enough.