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to provide for her mother in her old age, furnish Annabelle with a dowry and send John to public school, now that he was becoming too old for the day school he attended in Burnham, all things her father would have done, but for that devil up at the Hall. And there was no one she knew of who might do that except Sir Arthur Thomas-Smith.

      What would it be like married to him? Oh, she could guess. Humdrum, that’s what it would be. A daily grind of looking after his house and his daughters, acting as hostess at boring suppers and card games, looking forward with an inordinate amount of pleasure to attending meetings like this, lectures, readings, with the occasional country dance to liven things up. As for the marriage bed… But as she knew nothing whatever about that piece of furniture and what happened in it, her imagination failed her.

      She was startled to hear those about her applauding and realised the lecture had come to the halfway stage and she had not heard a single word. She forced herself back to the present and clapped politely.

      ‘There are refreshments in the next room,’ Annabelle said, as everyone stood up and made a beeline for the door. ‘I am very thirsty and I saw Sir Arthur go in there a moment ago.’

      Lydia’s heart sank. ‘So? The man may come to a lecture, may he not?’

      ‘Yes, but now’s your chance. You could speak to him.’

      ‘And what am I to say? Am I to throw myself at his feet and beg him to marry me?’

      Annabelle laughed. ‘No, you goose, but you could make yourself agreeable. Oh, look, here he comes.’

      Sir Arthur, his waistcoat straining across his front and his ill-fitting wig slightly lopsided, was bowing over her. ‘Miss Fostyn, may I have the pleasure of escorting you into the supper room?’ For a big man his voice was extraordinarily high, almost effete.

      Smiling, she lifted her hand, and allowed him to take it and raise her to her feet. ‘Thank you, sir.’

      ‘Mrs Fostyn is not here tonight?’

      ‘No, she is a little fatigued. I brought my sister instead. May I present Annabelle to you?’

      ‘Miss Annabelle.’ He bowed towards her with exaggerated civility which made the young lady stifle a laugh behind her fan.

      Together they walked into the next room where a cold collation and large bowls of punch and cordial were set on a long table at one end of the room and left for everyone to help themselves and take to small tables arranged in the body of the room. Sir Arthur found seats for them and went to fight his way through the throng to obtain food for them.

      ‘Lydia, there is Peregrine Baverstock,’ Annabelle hissed, nodding in the direction of a young man in a pink satin suit and red high-heeled shoes who was standing on the periphery of a group on other side of the room.

      ‘Baverstock?’ Lydia queried. ‘You mean Lord Baverstock’s son?’

      ‘Yes. Who else should I mean?’

      ‘How did you come to meet him?’

      ‘At Lady Brotherton’s, when I went to Caroline’s birthday celebration. He was one of the guests. Oh, I do believe he has spotted me.’

      The young man had indeed seen her, for he made his way through the crowd and bowed before them. ‘Miss Annabelle.’

      ‘Good evening, Mr Baverstock,’ Annabelle said, laughing at his formality. ‘I did not expect you here.’

      ‘Had to come. Parents insisted. Glad I did now.’ His face was fiery red.

      ‘May I present you to my sister?’

      ‘Miss Fostyn, your obedient. May I take Miss Annabelle to be presented to my parents?’

      Annabelle looked at Lydia. ‘May I go?’

      ‘Of course.’

      Annabelle was gone in an instant. Who could blame her for preferring the enlivening company of a young man nearer her own age than Sir Arthur? Lydia asked herself.

      She certainly would.

      ‘Why, if it isn’t my little water nymph.’

      Startled, she looked up and found herself gazing into the brown eyes of the man from Chelmsford. He was soberly dressed in a plain black coat and matching breeches with a white waistcoat and stockings. ‘Sir,’ she managed, though her heart was beating so fast she was almost too breathless to speak. ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘I was about to ask you the same question. Are you interested in India?’

      ‘Oh, very,’ she said.

      ‘Would you like me to introduce you to the speaker? I have known him for some time. We both served under Lord Clive.’

      ‘Oh, I had forgot you came from that continent,’ she lied.

      ‘There is no reason why you should have remembered a chance remark,’ he said. ‘Nor remembered me.’

      ‘No.’ She was so tongue-tied her usual easy manner quite deserted her.

      ‘But you did? You knew me as soon as I spoke.’

      ‘You remembered me.’

      ‘How could I forget?’ he said softly. ‘One minute the shop doorway was empty and the next it contained an apparition of such exquisite beauty I was transfixed. Did you come safely home?’

      ‘Yes, thank you.’ She felt the warmth creep up her cheeks and wished she could control it, knowing he could not fail to see it, so closely was he studying her. It was most disconcerting.

      ‘And you took no harm from your wetting?’

      ‘I did not get wet, sir, but you did. I hope you did not catch cold. After India, the climate here must be very trying…’

      ‘Not a bit of it. It is wonderful. The rain is so gentle, the wind but a zephyr breeze, the trees so green, the flowers so delicate and their perfume heady. I am drunk with it.’

      ‘La, sir,’ she said, laughing. ‘Are you sure it is not the punch? I believe it is an Indian concoction made up in honour of the subject and can be very potent.’

      ‘Indeed, yes. In India, where I first sampled it, the spirit it contained was arrack, but I imagine that has been substituted in this case with brandy. May I fetch you some? The lime and spices in it make it a refreshing drink.’

      ‘No, thank you, I am being looked after.’

      ‘Of course,’ he said, suddenly serious. ‘You would not be here alone, how silly of me.’

      ‘There you are, my dear. Such a dreadful crush.’ Sir Arthur was approaching, balancing three plates precariously in two hands. Seeing the young man with Lydia, he stopped, his mouth half open. Someone, who had not realised he had come to a sudden halt, jolted his elbow and the whole lot tipped over his waistcoat and down his breeches. In the ensuing confusion, while servants came to clear up the mess and he was led away to have his clothes cleaned, the young man from Chelmsford disappeared. Lydia, who wanted desperately to laugh at the sight of Sir Arthur with broken pigeon pie and bits of chicken leg, not to mention fruit tartlets, clinging to the satin and brocade of his suit, was almost reduced to tears when she realised the young man had gone.

      He had been so handsome and attentive. He made her legs weak and her hands shake and she realised that the thread was still there, stronger than ever, so why had Fate denied her the opportunity to further their acquaintance? Wealthy and not likely from a background where lineage and blood counted for much, he would have fitted the bill as a husband very well. She would not have minded being married to him. And Sir Arthur had spoiled it all, spoiled her evening. It just wasn’t fair.

      The bell went for the end of the intermission, Annabelle returned to her and they resumed their seats for the second half of the lecture, most of it of a political nature and very boring indeed. Annabelle, too, was bored, and could hardly wait for the polite applause which

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