“The Melton sisters. They had quite worn down poor Mr. Marshall; I had to rescue him. And that reminds me.” Amelia swung about, bright brown eyes dancing. “I’ve discovered why Eversleigh’s here!”
Lenore’s hands stilled. “Why?” she asked, hoping Amelia would not detect the breathlessness that had laid siege to her voice.
“Mr. Marshall told me that Eversleigh is dreading the prospect of facing all the matchmaking mamas. I do believe he’s here rusticating, recouping his energies before returning to town and facing his fate. He’s got six aunts, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Lenore murmured, her thoughts elsewhere. When Amelia turned an enquiring gaze on her, she added, “They’re friends of Harriet’s.” Lenore cleared her throat. “What sort of woman do you think Eversleigh will marry?”
“A diamond of the first water,” Amelia promptly declared. “Whoever of the latest lot fills that description and is suitably connected. It’s what’s expected, after all. And, for once, Eversleigh seems intent on fulfilling expectations.”
Lenore nodded and sank into silence.
After a few moments, her expression pensive, her fingers pleating the ribbons of her gown, Amelia asked, “Tell me, do you know much of Mr. Marshall?”
The question drew Lenore from her own thoughts to gaze in surprise at her friend. “Just how long did it take to rescue him last night?”
Amelia blushed. “Well, I couldn’t just leave the poor man—he w
as parched for entertainment. Those Melton girls might be very pretty, but widgeons, my dear.”
Lenore’s lips twitched. “I thought you were here to avoid that sort of thing?”
Amelia looked pained. “I came here to avoid being pursued, Lenore. As far as I know, Frederick Marshall has never pursued a woman in his life.”
Putting her head on one side, Lenore acknowledged that truth. “I had heard that. Odd, given his association with Eversleigh.”
“Yes, but very refreshing.” Amelia slanted a glance at Lenore. “Tell me, Lenore, do you still cling to your ideal of a singular existence, without the complications of men?”
Lenore looked down, picking up her papers. “Certainly. It’s the only sensible course, given the strictures that rule our lives.” She glanced up briefly through her glasses. “I would have thought that you, of all people, would appreciate that.”
Amelia sighed, her gaze on the ceiling. “Oh, I know. But, just sometimes, I wonder. If one is not in the marketplace, one cannot buy. And if one is not…” Her brow creased as she sought for words. “If one does not put oneself in the way of love, however will it find you?”
“Love, as you well know, is not for us.”
“I know, I know. But don’t you sometimes dream?” Abruptly, Amelia swung about in her chair, fixing Lenore with an impish smile. “What happened to those dreams of yours—about being the prisoner of some evil ogre and locked in a tower guarded by a dragon only to be rescued by a tall and fearless knight errant?”
Lenore glanced up from her piles of receipts. “I long since realised that being held prisoner in some musty dungeon was likely to prove quite uncomfortable and that relying on being rescued was a mite risky, given the likelihood of my knight errant’s being distracted by a mill, or some such event, and forgetting to turn up.”
“Oh, Lenore!” Amelia sat back, pulling a disgusted face. After a moment, she said, “You know, I understand all your arguments, but I’ve never understood why you’re so convinced there’s no hope for us.”
Lenore paused in her sorting, eyes lifting to the peaceful scene beyond her window as memories of her mother’s face, always trying to look so brave, filled her mind’s eye. Abruptly, she drew a curtain firmly across the vision. Looking down, she said, “Let’s just say that love among the ton is a sadly mismanaged affair. It afflicts only one sex, leaving them vulnerable to all sorts of hurts. You only have to listen to the tales of Harriet’s friends. How they bear such lives I do not know. I could never do so.”
Amelia was frowning. “You mean the…the emotional hurts? The pain of loving and not being loved in return?”
Brusquely, without looking up, Lenore nodded.
“Yes, but…” Amelia’s brow was furrowed as she wrestled with her meaning. “If one does not take a chance and give one’s love, one cannot expect to receive love in return. Which would be worse—to never risk love and die never having known it, or to take a chance and, just possibly, come away with the prize?”
For a long moment, Lenore gazed at Amelia, a frown deeply etched in her eyes. “I suspect that depends on the odds of winning.”
“Which in turn depends on the man one loves.”
Silence descended in the small room, both occupants sunk deep in uneasy speculation. Then, in the distance, a gong clanged.
With a deep sigh, Amelia stood and shook out her skirts. She looked up and met Lenore’s gaze squarely. “Lunch.”
* * *
THAT EVENING, Lenore entered the drawing-room, her expression serene, her mind in a quandary. Instantly she was aware of Eversleigh, one of a group of guests on the other side of the room, chatting urbanely. Slipping into her accustomed role, she glided from group to group, playing the gracious hostess with effortless ease. Avoiding the group of which Eversleigh was a part, she came to rest beside Amelia, chatting animatedly with Frederick Marshall, the Melton sisters and two other gentlemen.