No one could say that Hyacinth was hopelessly on the shelf, but even she had to admit that she was edging toward that position. She had received a few proposals since her debut three years earlier, but not as many as one would think, given her looks—not the prettiest girl in town but certainly better than at least half—and her fortune—again, not the largest dowry on the market, but certainly enough to make a fortune hunter look twice.
And her connections were, of course, nothing short of impeccable. Her brother was, as their father had been before him, the Viscount Bridgerton, and while theirs might not have been the loftiest title in the land, the family was immensely popular and influential. And if that weren’t enough, her sister Daphne was the Duchess of Hastings, and her sister Francesca was the Countess of Kilmartin.
If a man wanted to align himself with the most powerful families in Britain, he could do a lot worse than Hyacinth Bridgerton.
But if one took the time to reflect upon the timing of the proposals she had received, which Hyacinth didn’t care to admit that she had, it was starting to look damning indeed.
Three proposals her first season.
Two her second.
One last year.
And none thus far this time around.
It could only be argued that she was growing less popular. Unless, of course, someone was foolish enough actually to make the argument, in which case Hyacinth would have to take the other side, facts and logic notwithstanding.
And she’d probably win the point, too. It was a rare man—or woman—who could outwit, outspeak, or outdebate Hyacinth Bridgerton.
This might, she’d thought in a rare moment of self-reflection, have something to do with why her rate of proposals was declining at such an alarming pace.
No matter, she thought, watching the Smythe-Smith girls mill about on the small dais that had been erected at the front of the room. It wasn’t as if she should have accepted any of her six proposals. Three had been fortune hunters, two had been fools, and one had been quite terminally boring.
Better to remain unmarried than shackle herself to someone who’d bore her to tears. Even her mother, inveterate matchmaker that she was, couldn’t argue that point.
And as for her current proposal-free season—well, if the gentlemen of Britain couldn’t appreciate the inherent value of an intelligent female who knew her own mind, that was their problem, not hers.
Lady Danbury thumped her cane against the floor, narrowly missing Hyacinth’s right foot. “I say,” she said, “have either of you caught sight of my grandson?”
“Which grandson?” Hyacinth asked.
“Which grandson,” Lady D echoed impatiently. “Which grandson? The only one I like, that’s which.”
Hyacinth didn’t even bother to hide her shock. “Mr. St. Clair is coming tonight?”
“I know, I know,” Lady D cackled. “I can hardly believe it myself. I keep waiting for a shaft of heavenly light to burst through the ceiling.”
Penelope’s nose crinkled. “I think that might be blasphemous, but I’m not sure.”
“It’s not,” Hyacinth said, without even looking at her. “And why is he coming?”
Lady Danbury smiled slowly. Like a snake. “Why are you so interested?”
“I’m always interested in gossip,” Hyacinth said quite candidly. “About anyone. You should know that already.”
“Very well,” Lady D said, somewhat grumpily after having been thwarted. “He’s coming because I blackmailed him.”
Hyacinth and Penelope regarded her with identically arched brows.
“Very well,” Lady Danbury conceded, “if not blackmail, then a heavy dose of guilt.”
“Of course,” Penelope murmured, at the exact time Hyacinth said, “That makes much more sense.”
Lady D sighed. “I might have told him I wasn’t feeling well.”
Hyacinth was dubious. “Might have?”
“Did,” Lady D admitted.