“It’s nothing,” Hyacinth mumbled. But between this conversation and the one the previous week with her mother, she was beginning to wonder how, exactly, the world saw her.
Because she wasn’t so certain it corresponded with how she saw herself.
“I wasn’t saying that I want you to change,” Felicity said, taking Hyacinth’s hand in a gesture of friendship. “Goodness, no. Just that you need someone who can keep up with you. Even you must confess that most people can’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Hyacinth said, giving her head a little shake. “I overreacted. I just…I haven’t felt quite like myself the last few days.”
And it was true. She hid it well, or at least she thought she did, but inside, she was in a bit of a turmoil. It was that talk with her mother. No, it was that talk with Mr. St. Clair.
No, it was everything. Everything all at once. And she was left feeling as if she wasn’t quite sure who she was anymore, which was almost impossible to bear.
“It’s probably a sniffle,” Felicity said, looking back out at the ballroom floor. “Everyone seems to have one this week.”
Hyacinth didn’t contradict her. It would have been nice if it was just a sniffle.
“I know you are friendly with him,” Felicity continued. “I heard you sat together at both the Smythe-Smith musicale and the Pleinsworth poetry recitation.”
“It was a play,” Hyacinth said absently. “They changed it at the last moment.”
“Even worse. I would have thought you’d have managed to get out of attending at least one.”
“They weren’t so awful.”
“Because you were sitting next to Mr. St. Clair,” Felicity said with a sly smile.
“You are terrible,” Hyacinth said, refusing to look at her. If she did, Felicity was sure to see the truth in her eyes. Hyacinth was a good liar, but not that good, and not with Felicity.
And the worst of it was—she could hear herself in Felicity’s words. How many times had she teased Felicity in the very same way before Felicity had married? A dozen? More?
“You should dance with him,” Felicity said.
Hyacinth kept her eyes on the ballroom floor. “I can’t do anything if he does not ask.”
“Of course he’ll ask. You have only to stand on the other side of the room, where he is more likely to see you.”
“I’m not going to chase him.”
Felicity’s smile spread across her face. “You do like him! Oh, this is lovely! I have never seen—”
“I don’t like him,” Hyacinth cut in. And then, because she realized how juvenile that sounded, and that Felicity would never believe her, she added, “I merely think that perhaps I ought to see if I might like him.”
“Well, that’s more than you’ve ever said about any other gentleman,” Felicity pointed out. “And you have no need to chase him. He wouldn’t dare ignore you. You are the sister of his host, and besides, wouldn’t his grandmother take him to task if he didn’t ask you to dance?”
“Thank you for making me feel like such a prize.”
Felicity chuckled. “I have never seen you like this, and I must say, I’m enjoying it tremendously.”
“I’m glad one of us is,” Hyacinth grumbled, but her words were lost under the sharp sound of Felicity’s gasp.
“What is it?” Hyacinth asked.
Felicity tilted her head slightly to the left, motioning across the room. “His father,” she said in a low voice.
Hyacinth turned around sharply, not even trying to conceal her interest. Good heavens, Lord St. Clair was here. All of London knew that father and son did not speak, but invitations to parties were still issued to both. The St. Clair men seemed to have a remarkable talent for not appearing where the other might be, and so hostesses were generally spared the embarrassment of having them attend the same function.
But obviously, something had gone wrong this evening.
Did Gareth know his father was there? Hyacinth looked quickly back to the dance floor. He was laughing at something Miss Hotchkiss was saying. No, he didn’t know. Hyacinth had witnessed him with his father once. It had been from across the room, but there had been no mistaking the strained expression on his face.