Page 63 of Thief of the Ton
The door opened and the men filtered into the drawing room, accompanied by the aroma of brandy and cigar smoke. The shrill voices of the ladies rose in pitch as they greeted the men, then settled into a murmur, this time tempered by the lower pitch of the men’s voices.
“And not a moment before time!” Lady Hythe trilled, a petulant tone to her voice. “I was just saying to Lady Francis that the gentlemen had been neglecting us. What can you have found so interesting to discuss that you’d abandon us for so long?”
Anything would be interesting compared to your inanities, Lady Hythe.
Lavinia suppressed the urge to giggle, and sipped her coffee.
Their hostess’s outburst was followed by a volley of apologies from the gentlemen, who eased her petulance by flattering her over the cut of her gown and the excellence of her choice of dinner menu, until she sparkled once more, and basked in their praise.
Ugh.
Lavinia wanted none of it. Lady Hythe—and every other woman in the room—measured their worth by the opinion that the men in the room had of her, rather than the value she gave to the world.
But, most likely, Lady Hythe gave no value to the world whatsoever. These women of Society, who fancied themselves superior to the rest of the world, spent their lives in desperation, securing the attention and approval of the men who dictated their lives.
Perhaps, had Papa not been ruined, Lavinia herself might have grown up to become like the rest of them. Shallow, spiteful, and only concerned about how many trinkets she had about her neck, or how many fine gowns she had in her wardrobe, looking down her nose at the less fortunate. Hardship had given her a better understanding of the world.
Perhaps she ought to thank Earl Walton for what he’d done—if she hadn’t spent the past fourteen years hating the man.
Lady Hythe issued an order, and two footmen rushed forward and began moving chairs about, clearing a space in the center of the room. Then she made a great show of approaching the pianoforte.
Footsteps approached, and Lavinia wrinkled her nose at the onslaught of cologne—so powerful that its owner must have drenched himself in it.
“Miss de Grande—would you partner me for this dance?”
She looked up into a pair of pale blue eyes in a sharply handsome face framed by soft blond hair.
Heath Moss stood before her.
Ugh.
She’d had the misfortune of sitting opposite him at dinner, where he’d spent much of the meal leering across the table at her. She’d felt his eyes on her while she fixed her attention on the elderly Reverend Pilcher, feigning an interest in seventeenth-century ecclesiastical texts while the vicar droned on in a voice soporific enough to render an entire congregation unconscious.
Moss might possess the sort of attractiveness that enticed most ladies. But he knew it, and that knowledge gave him an air of arrogance, as if he believed that no woman would refuse him.
“Well?” He held out his hand.
“No, thank you,” she said.
His eyes widened. “I—beg your pardon?”
“I said no!”
“Well!” he exclaimed. “Of all the—”
He broke off as Aunt Edna approached, and the anger in his eyes disappeared.
“Lady Yates.” He bowed. “May I fetch you something to drink?”
“A little coffee, thank you,” Aunt Edna said. Then she settled into the seat beside Lavinia.
A few notes rang out as their hostess ran her fingers along the pianoforte, and a handful of couples lined up in the center of the room.
“Miss de Grande,” a familiar, deep voice said, and Lavinia’s breath hitched as the tall form of Lord Marlow appeared, brandy glass in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. “Would you favor me with this dance?”
“I’d be delighted.”
“Excellent.” He bowed, then approached a footman, who relieved him of the glass and cup.
