Page 43 of Henrietta

Hetty laughed. ‘Is that so?’

‘I would offer you some refreshment.’ Arthur returned her lemonade glass back to her, and she gave a little curtsey of thanks. ‘I might compliment you on your dress.’

‘Oh.’ She looked down at her gown. ‘Timothy thought the colour would suit me.’

‘It does,’ he confirmed.

‘Truly?’

‘You have always looked very well in green – especially when you blush, as now.’

Hetty ducked her head, and Arthur laughed.

‘You might then say something nice to me,’ he prompted.

Hetty’s mind went blank.

‘Surely it cannot be so difficult.’

‘No, it is not – I just cannot—’

Her face felt as if it were on fire.

‘Perhaps my eyes are nice?’ he suggested.

‘Yes. Yes.’ She grasped on to this lifeline grateful. ‘Your eyes are – well, they are grey.’

His mouth curled. ‘Are they?’

‘Very grey,’ she embellished, face aflame.

‘How kind! You know, I do not believe I have ever been given – ah – such a compliment before.’

‘Can we stop?’ she requested. ‘This is – excruciating.’

Arthur heaved a sigh. ‘Not what one generally wishes to hear from one’s flirts. Perhaps I am losing my touch.’

Hetty advised him severely that he was being foolish. He begged her sincere pardon, then – after a pause – said: ‘I think it is time, Hetty.’

He spoke in a strange voice, as if he were telling a joke she ought to understand. She did not.

‘Time for what, pray?’

‘Time for you to speak to him. You have delayed long enough.’

‘To whom?’

He laughed. ‘Doing it too brown, now. You’ve done very well at pretending not to notice him, but I think the poor man’s ego must have suffered enough.’

What was he talking about? ‘Who are you …’

‘It was not so difficult to guess,’ he said apologetically.

As if in a dream – or more, perhaps, a nightmare – Hetty followed Arthur’s gaze across the room to where a young man stood laughing with a champagne flute in his hand. He had a fair, handsome countenance and a decided air of fashion: his boots highly shined, his coat exquisitely moulded and his golden locks anointed with Russian oil. He was, she realised, the gentleman who had stood upon her gown, and, apparently—

‘The European noble you knew as a child, the one with family in Vienna,’ Arthur supplied. ‘Young, titled, much-courted, and arriving so recently in the capital. There were not many gentleman who matched the description: in the end, it could only be the Marquis de Nicolet.’

Yes, she ought to have been more careful with her description.