“There now!” Mother warned. “I’ll not abide your quarreling. Conduct yourselves as ladies, if you please!”
Lucy fell back against the squabs again in a pout. Anna ignored her.
Perhaps if she were in Lucy’s perfect little slippers she’d be just as insufferable, but it wasn’t as if Anna was keeping her from receiving offers on purpose. And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had at least an offer here and there—of course she had! Three, to be exact—all deemed unacceptable by her parents. Not that it had bothered Anna, really—she scarcely knew the men who offered, and she did not feel an all-consuming desire to marry.
No, Anna had realized the Season she’d made her debut and had attracted only the attention of a man who had a bug collection and a declining fortune that she did not fit the desired mold of what the more exciting bachelors of the ton sought in a potential wife. The realization had been rather hurtful, and she had retreated to the training of hunting dogs—a hobby that had made her one of the most renowned trainers in Devonshire. But Anna had begun to accept the fact she might end up a spinster.
She did not want to end up a spinster. Quite the contrary—she had long ago dreamed of falling in love, of being swept off her feet by some dashing man, of marrying for love and bearing children, and laughing and living… and she dreamed of Drake Lockhart.
Drake Lockhart… She stifled a sigh. Lord God, how she admired that man! Had admired him desperately since her introduction into society. Was there anyone more dashing? More handsome? More accomplished or gentle or charming? Sadly, no… and while Anna wasn’t certain that he held any particular esteem for her, she had her hopes. He flirted shamelessly with her, and since he had come home from his Grand Tour of the Continent at Christmas, he seemed even more flirtatious than he’d been the year he’d left.
She could scarcely wait to see him tonight; she had worn her best ball gown, a shimmering pale green, embroidered at the hem with a garland of flowers that matched the embroidery of the high bodice. Mother proclaimed it lovely, but Lucy, adorned in gossamer white and looking very angelic, said it looked rather matronly.
Anna had ignored her—she harbored no false illusions about her appearance. With auburn hair so dark that it was almost brown and brown eyes, she was what her father called a handsome woman. Not so handsome as to be considered uncommonly pretty, and not so unhandsome as to be considered plain. Just somewhere in between pretty and plain. Along with a thousand other unmarried women.
Nonetheless, Anna had high hopes for tonight’s ball, and smiled when the carriage suddenly lurched forward.
There was a crush of carriages in and around fashionable Berkeley Square, all vying for a position in front of the Darlington mansion. The crème de la crème of London’s haute ton was expected to attend. Only being on one’s deathbed was sufficient reason to miss the event.
Peter and Augusta Addison, Viscount and Viscountess Whittington—Anna’s parents—were no different. They were among the privileged ranks of the ton’s very elite. Lord Whittington had been a distinguished member of the House of Lords for several years, and Lady Whittington was known as the consummate hostess.
Furthermore, their three adult daughters were renowned for their good looks and manners. Bette, the oldest, had married a parliamentary protégé the year after her debut and was now the happy Lady Featherstone, mother of two children, and following closely in her mother’s footsteps. Miss Lucy Addison, the youngest, was known as the prettiest of the three, and, in fact, many said she was uncommonly pretty, and the one with the sweetest countenance.
That left Anna Addison, the middle girl. While there were those among the ton who would quietly say that Miss Addison was a true Original, there were many more who thought her a bit artless for the Quality. Anna had heard enough parlor gossip to know that she had what some said was a “difficult personality.”
Frankly, she did not understand why. Well, all right, to be fair, her argument with Lord Mathers over Catholic emancipation at a very large supper party had not exactly been her shining moment, but his lordship was so unbearably stodgy on the subject!
Nevertheless, she was reasonably accomplished by the ton’s standards. She knew all the things a young woman was supposed to know—the harp, a little geography, a little embroidery. She might not be the most demure woman circulating amongst the Quality, but she had never picked her teeth with her fork or stepped on anyone’s toes in the course of a dance, or been caught in a compromising position…as much as she might have liked to have been involved in something so excitingly scandalous.