‘You have admitted to me that you do not expect to receive any proposals of marriage,’ Captain Fawley ploughed on with brutal candour.
‘And that at the end of the season, because of your straitened circumstances, you will have to seek paid employment. You will be quite miserable.’
Deborah’s heart was pounding hard. She could not remember any man ever insulting her so comprehensively. Even though all he had said was true, it was cruel of him to fling it in her face. How dared he taunt her with her wish to marry, having told her she stood no chance of snaring a man?
‘I do not think I wish to continue with this conversation,’ she said, rising to her feet and turning her back on him.
‘Miss Gillies, do not turn me down before you hear the whole.’
Turn him down? She froze. What was he trying to say?
‘The…the whole?’ Reluctantly, she looked at him over her shoulder.
‘Yes.’ He got to his feet, reached for her upper arm, and spun her to face him. ‘I thought you, of all women, might overcome your revulsion for such a man as I am in return for lifelong security.’
‘You are asking me to marry you?’
Chapter One
‘Oh, no,’ Susannah grumbled to her friend, Miss Deborah Gillies, snapping open her fan and raising it to conceal the lower part of her face. ‘Here comes Captain Fawley, hobbling over to ask me to dance again. And I cannot. I simply cannot.’
Deborah compressed her lips to hide her own revulsion—oh, not at Captain Fawley. The poor man could not help the way he looked. He had lost the lower part of one leg, and his left hand in the same explosion which had so badly disfigured his face. His left eyelid would for ever droop into the scarring that covered his whole cheek, twisting his mouth into a permanently cynical expression. No, she could feel nothing but compassion for him.
It was Susannah’s behaviour that upset her.
Captain Fawley bowed over her friend’s hand, his dark eyes raised to hers with dogged determination.
‘Good evening, Miss Hullworthy, Miss Gillies.’ Though he included Deborah in his greeting, he shot her only the briefest glance. ‘I was hoping I might prevail upon you to dance with me this evening.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Susannah, with just the right amount of regret in her voice to sound convincing. ‘I am afraid my dance card is already full. And here comes my partner for the quadrille.’ She looked over Captain Fawley’s shoulder, a smile stretching her lips into a pretty pink bow as Baron Dunning came to claim her hand.
Deborah supposed it was not Susannah’s fault that the rules of conduct required a lady to repress her true feelings under a cloak of civility. But surely it would be kinder to Captain Fawley if she could just tell him how he made her feel. Then he wouldn’t keep on approaching her, and being rebuffed so prettily that he had no idea that the very thought of him touching her made Susannah feel nauseous.
She flicked him a soulful glance as he watched Susannah walk to the dance floor on the arm of her portly young partner. Captain Fawley must have been strikingly handsome once, she sighed wistfully. Dark haired, as well as dark eyed, with features that were still discernibly pleasing, even under that horribly reddened and puckered skin.
Whereas there was nothing handsome about Baron Dunning. He had a weak chin, made more noticeable by a mouth full of prominent teeth, and his skin was a greasy broth of suppurating pustules.
‘Many people suffer from spots,’ Susannah had remonstrated when Deborah had pointed out that Baron Dunning’s complexion was no better than Captain Fawley’s. ‘He cannot help that!’
Besides which, he had a title. All the poor Captain had to offer was his devotion. And Susannah might protest that she would hate to look ridiculous hobbling about the dance floor with a man who had a false leg, but she never worried what it looked like to dance with the doddery Earl of Caxton. The on-dit was that the cadaverous widower was on the lookout for wife number three, and Susannah was plainly ready to stifle her squeamishness for the sake of a coronet.
The impecunious Captain Fawley could expect no such consideration.
‘How could I let him touch me, with that false hand?’ Susannah had whined only the previous night, when they had been preparing for bed at the end of an arduous day of husband hunting. It had occurred to Deborah, as her friend applied pineapple water to her skin, that it was most apt to refer to the early weeks of spring as ‘the Season’. Débutantes stalked their prey as ruthlessly as sportsmen on a grouse shoot, flushing unsuspecting bachelors from their covers with a swirl of silken skirts, then bagging them with a volley fired from a pair of sparkling eyes. Or lured them into traps baited with honeyed smiles and coaxing words.