Bella flushed with obvious pride. “I could not say whether I have been a success, my lady,” she said, her tone clearly indicating that she both could and would say she was a success if only modesty permitted. “But I have very much enjoyed myself.”
“I would imagine you have.” Lady Beatrix’s silky tone only thinly veiled the insult behind her words, but Bella’s eager expression did not waiver.
“Your mother mentioned that you were particularly hopeful of bringing a certain gentleman up to scratch. A Mr. Penrose, wasn’t it?” Lady Beatrix’s eyes were wide and guileless.
The color drained from Bella’s face, and her mouth fell open in silent horror. She looked first to Jeremy, who merely quirked an eyebrow at her, and then to her mother, who showed no expression whatsoever.
From the far end of the table, Lord Delby, one of the newly arrived guests, spoke up. “Penrose, eh? Decent chap.” Delby, an avid snuff-taker, paused to emit a loud, wet snort. “A bit dim, perhaps, but rich as Croesus. I heard he had his sights set on some gel, but never heard a name.”
“Um. Yes, well,” Bella stammered. “Mr. Penrose has been most gracious. But I’m sure we are only the most casual of acquaintances. If he holds a tendre for me, he has never said so.”
“Oh, my dear, there is no need to be modest,” Lady Beatrix persisted. “I heard the young man followed you like a lapdog. It seems he is quite smitten with you. A girl of your…experience could not help but to notice such open adoration.”
“And why should he not adore Miss Fitzhenry?” Blackwell intoned from the far reaches of the dining table. “I am certain that a girl as fresh and lovely and young as Miss Fitzhenry must have scores of adoring admirers.” Blackwell leered at Bella, his gaze a hot, brief caress, before turning mocking eyes on his wife.
Lady Beatrix narrowed her eyes in contempt. “My lord, I am certain some men have more discerning tastes.”
Blackwell lifted an eyebrow in acknowledgement of his wife’s barb.
“But,” Lady Beatrix continued, sighing heavily, “I suppose young, beautiful girls who smile just so, well, they will have young bucks falling all over themselves.”
Bella looked as though she might be sick at any moment. As the rest of the party seemed content to watch her squirm, Mira knew she had to intervene. At the same time, however, she could not pass up the opportunity to warn Bella once more to take matters with Mr. Ellerby more slowly.
“My lady,” Mira said, “I imagine you had a gaggle of suitors yourself before you wed Lord Blackwell. I am sure you can sympathize with Bella’s predicament.”
Lady Beatrix leveled a coolly assessing gaze at Mira. “And which predicament would that be, Miss Fitzhenry?”
“Knowing which of your suitors is honorable. Which have noble intentions and which base,” Mira replied. “For beautiful women, such as yourself and Bella, the problem is not attracting attention but knowing which attention to return. And, of course, knowing how to draw the line between being polite to a gentleman and encouraging him. So I…I suppose, really, there are two predicaments.” Mira paused to look down at her plate. “Perhaps,” she suggested quietly, without looking up, “perhaps you have some advice to offer Bella?”
When Lady Beatrix did not immediately answer, Mira risked a glance at the woman. The Countess of Blackwell seemed to be looking directly into her soul, her expression intent and vaguely troubled.
When Lady Beatrix finally spoke, her voice was distant, distracted. “Miss Fitzhenry should remember that both sexes can be fickle in the extreme. Both will sometimes make empty promises. And both are capable of the most brutal and intimate betrayal.” Her gaze slipped around the table as she spoke, resting briefly on each of the dinner guests. Except her husband.
Mira risked a glance at Blackwell. His heavy lids drooped over his eyes in boredom, and his mouth was set in a thin expression of contempt.
Beatrix paused to clear her throat. The harsh set of her features softened as she looked down at her dinner plate. “And she must realize that sometimes the dream of love is more compelling than the reality. Only time can distinguish the real from the imaginary. And time can be a cruel ally.”