Page 9 of A Mismatch Made in London

She whispered that last part, as a young gentleman, who had been talking with two other gentlemen nearby, approached us. I immediately noticed how very handsome he looked and assumed he was coming to ask Juliet to dance.

“Amelia, this is my brother Jeremy Beaumont. He is saddled with being my chaperone tonight, more’s the pity for him.” Juliet smirked, the opposite of an expression of pity.

Then it struck me. Jeremy Beaumont. He was supposed to be the most sought-after gentleman of the Season, according to my aunt.

“Miss Moore,” Mr. Beaumont said after Juliet had finished the introduction. He gave me a quick bow and a rather sour frown before saying to Juliet, “I hope you are enjoying yourself.”

“I am, very much. Now, if you would dance with my friend, perhaps a gentleman would ask me to dance.”

He bowed to me. “Would you do me the honor, Miss Moore, of dancing the next with me?”

“Yes, I thank you.”

It was strange. I might have been nervous and even frightened of dancing with the most eligible young gentleman in the room, if he had been the least bit cordial. Instead, his expression was cold and unfriendly. It made me wonder: How could someone as kind and wonderful as Juliet Beaumont have such a sour, ungracious brother? And how could such a man be considered the most eligible bachelor of the London social season?

It was a shame that the handsomest ones were the most unpleasant.

Mr. Beaumont’s thick brown hair had a subtle hint of auburn that complemented his blue eyes. A shock of it lay across his forehead in a wave of unruliness, almost defiance. His features were quite handsome. Or they would have been, had he not been wearing such a disagreeable expression.

As we stood opposite each other, waiting for the dance to begin, I said, “Juliet is a wonderful girl. You are blessed to have her as a sister.”

He couldn’t take offense with that, could he? Yet he kept staring coldly.

I thought of some other things I might say, but as talking hadbrought me only scorn from my first dance partner of the night, I wished I hadn’t said anything.

Just as I thought he wasn’t going to reply to me at all, he said, “She is won over easily enough.”

My cheeks started to burn. How could he say such a thing? He didn’t even know me.

The music finally began.

Perhaps he hadn’t meant to be offensive to me. He was only commenting on Juliet’s gregarious nature.

He was a very good dancer, not like some gentlemen whose movements were as stilted as their conversation, or the men who refused to make eye contact, their gaze wandering about the room, or the ones who awkwardly tried to talk while dancing, or who didn’t know the steps of the dance and bumped into their partner or trod on her foot. Mr. Beaumont’s execution, however, was flawless.

When it was over, he said, “To whom shall I escort you?”

I wanted him to take me to his sister Juliet, but I knew it was customary for him to escort me back to my parent or chaperone, so I said, “My aunt is over there—” I nodded in her direction “—Mrs. Oliver Kendall.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Kendall are your uncle and aunt?”

“Yes.”

“And how did you become acquainted with my sister?” He seemed to hiss the words.

“We met tonight, in the hall—”

“And you are from where? Who are your parents?”

I straightened my shoulders, and I did not smile. “My father is a gentleman, if that is what you are asking.”

He did not reply.

We arrived in front of my aunt, who was all smiles.

“Mr. Beaumont, how good of you to escort my niece. You looked very handsome out there on the dance floor, both such accomplished dancers.”

Mr. Beaumont bowed to my aunt, then turned and walked away.