Her interest in him, after all, was not that of a young lady expecting a courtship.
On the other hand, she did feel as if someone had stolen a book from her…one she’d been anxious to finish, too. Lord Willard was a plot unresolved, a mystery without resolution. And, of course, for her plan to work, Willard had toparticipate.
“Blackwell’s jaw is wrong.” Nettie pointed to Emily’s drawing. “He has perfectly proportioned features.”
“Actually, I think this could be my most accurate sketch yet,” Emily replied. “Yourperspective can’t be trusted.”
“Why?” Nettie demanded.
“L’amour yeux—love eyes.”
“Blackwell is fine.” Lenora squinted. “But you haven’t got Asquith quite right. He has a narrower face and, on the rare occasion he truly smiles, a slight dimple on the right side.”
“The dimple, I can add, although I’m not sure I’ve noticed one.” Emily tilted her head. “But I have neither rubber, nor breadcrumb, so I cannot smear away the slight rounding of his cheek.”
“A crumb from Nettie’s cake should work,” Lenora suggested.
“Heaven forbid.” Nettie moved her dish safely out of Emily’s reach. “Not even for a correct likeness of either man.”
Lenora sighed. “You did, however,perfectlyrender the curve in Asquith’s eyebrows.”
This time, Millie did roll her eyes.
If the alternative to discussing pianos was watching Emily attempt to capture Asquith’s and Blackwell’s likenesses to either sister’s satisfaction, she’d rather go back to the ballroom, thank you.
In any case, both sisters were wrong about which of this Season’s eligible young bachelors was most attractive. Neville was the handsomest, classically speaking.
Moreover, he had a sturdy, muscular quality—afearful symmetry, to quote a poem she’d recently read. He’d be quite impressive if his personality weren’t so insufferable.
She wandered back out into the hall and took up a place by the left window, just beside the double doors. Last night, after Nettie had gone to sleep, she’d thought she’d heard people talking in the street. She’d gotten up to check, but she’d seen only a solitary male figure and something about his shape had reminded her of Neville.
Silly, really.
Why would Neville have been staring up at her window?
She doubted he was even aware of which chamber she occupied.
In any case, whoever the not-Neville man was, he’d turned away, hunching his broad shoulders against the cold, and disappeared into the January night. After he left, the street had been empty.
Unlike now.
This afternoon, the road was full of people of all ages coming and going. She wished she could join the fray. But as alady, she was not permitted to leave the house, not without a chaperone.
Heavens, how she missed the country.
If she were still at Willowhurst, she’d just lace up her boots and head out for a brisk walk. Or, better yet, a swift ride. Perhaps, she might even collect her rifle and offer to help the old gamekeeper rid the area of pests.
Any of those activities would serve to clear her head.
But they’d sold the manor home. And here in the city, she’d need heavy, awkward pattens rather than boots to go out—if she were allowed out at all.
Even the most inconsequential excursion required an escort.
And,no, the maid she shared with her sisters, she’d been informed, wasnota proper chaperone. Which left her cooped up like one of those poor animals at the Exeter ‘Change on the Strand.
She was cut off from any pastime that could serve to brighten her days, especially those activities she’d relied on back at home, when the weight of her mother’s unhappiness threatened to pull them all into despair.
“Waiting for someone?”