A Wedding In Springtime(30)

Mr. Blakely bowed. Genie curtsied.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” said Mr. Blakely. In a dark suit of unremarkable tailoring, there was nothing about Mr. Blakely that initially either intrigued or repulsed Genie. He was a youngish man with brown hair cut in an average manner, had brown eyes, and was of average height and build.

“Have you been in London long?” asked Genie.

“No, not long. A fortnight perhaps.”

Genie nodded as if she was interested and then no longer knew what to say. She had met so many men, she was growing tired of polite conversation. “Are you enjoying the ball?”

“There do seem to be a lot of people present.”

“Yes, quite a crush, from what I understand,” said Genie. “The hostess should be very pleased.”

“I could not say.”

Genie waited to see what Mr. Blakely could say, but apparently that was more than she should have hoped for, so she continued the conversation. “As a newcomer to London, I have been most intrigued to see the sights. I hear the British Museum is fascinating.”

“I have never been.”

“The guidebook said it was highly recommended.” Which was more than she could say for the conversation.

“Thank you for that suggestion.”

“You are most welcome.”

And so their conversation dragged on, one of the most innocuous, dull conversations that had ever been uttered. Genie prided herself in making good conversation, but she found it difficult to determine his feelings on any topic. He seemed content to accept the most banal opinion on any subject. It was not that there was anything wrong with Mr. Blakely. His facial features were acceptable, common perhaps. In fact, there was nothing particularly remarkable about him.

And yet, he was a good potential husband. She could not identify any feature that was wrong with Mr. Blakely, and he certainly did not ask her impertinent questions or make her feel flushed and dizzy. A definite improvement, she must say.

“The next set is beginning,” said Penelope, rejoining them. “I do hope, Mr. Blakely, that you enjoy dancing as much as Miss Talbot.”

“I could not say,” answered Mr. Blakely, but he got the broad hint. “Shall we dance?” he asked Genie, though she did not detect any sliver of interest. Yet she was learning that in society, showing strong emotions was considered gauche. If a bland demeanor was fashionable, then Mr. Grant was correct—respectable people were dull.





Ten





“There you are!” accused Lady Devine.

Grant flinched at his aunt’s words—not at the caustic tone, because he knew what was coming next. He turned from his card game to his aunt, her pursed lips and raised eyebrow a clear indication of her displeasure. She was about to ring a peal over his head, and he had done nothing but deserve it.

“Have you forgotten the promises you made me?” demanded Lady Devine.

“No, no, I was just taking a moment’s reprieve,” soothed Grant.

“A moment? I’ll have you know that moment has taken at least four sets!”

“No, surely not that long.”

“Indeed you have. I am sorry to break up the loo table, but with the cards you hold, you should be thanking me.”

Grant sighed and tossed his cards to the table. “Gentlemen, I thank thee. Duty calls.”

“Every debutante,” reminded his aunt as they proceeded back to the ballroom. “You promised to dance with every debutante if I would invite Lady Bremerton’s foolish protégée.”

“Have you met Miss Talbot, Aunt?” asked Grant.

“Yes, briefly. She is a pretty young thing. Exactly the kind whose company you’d enjoy.” She stopped for a moment in the corridor and lowered her voice. “I should not have to warn you, but I will not have you losing your head and making that gel some indecent proposal.”

“Aunt, you shock me!” said Grant in mock horror.

“I am in earnest. Miss Talbot is under the protection of Lady Bremerton, and no matter how foolish the chit is, she is not a candidate to be your next doxy.”

“Dear Aunt, you amaze me. I have never preyed on young debutantes.”

“That is not entirely true,” said his aunt, raising her eyebrow once more. “Do you recall the incident with Lady Stockton?”

Grant smiled in return, a charming, disarming, utterly false sort of smile. This was the trouble with family—they knew your past a little too well. “She was not Lady Stockton when the offer was made,” said Grant in a low voice. “Besides, it was a trifling matter, completely forgotten.” It was true that few people knew it had occurred and fewer still remembered it at all. Grant himself had tried to drink the memory away but found the incident could not be forgot.