Supper was a magnificent presentation, with gigantic silver tureens and platters carried in a ceaseless procession around the three long tables in the dining room. Annabelle could scarcely credit that the guests would dine like this every night, but the gentleman on her left—the parish vicar—assured her that this was commonplace for Westcliff’s table. “The earl and his family are renowned for their balls and supper parties,” he said. “Lord Westcliff is the most accomplished host of the peerage.”

Annabelle was not inclined to argue. It had been a long time since she had been served such exquisite food. The lukewarm offerings at the London soirees and parties couldn’t begin to compare to this feast. In the past few months the Peyton household had not been able to afford much more than bread, bacon, and soup, with the occasional helping of fried sole or stewed mutton. For once she was glad not to have been seated next to a sparkling conversationalist, as it allowed her long periods of silence during which she could eat as much as she liked. And with the servants constantly offering new and dazzling dishes for the guests to sample, no one seemed to notice the unlady-like gusto of her appetite.

Hungrily she consumed a bowl of soup made with champagne and Camembert, followed by delicate veal strips coated in herb-dressed sauce, and tender vegetable marrow in cream…fish baked in clever little paper cases, which let out a burst of fragrant steam when opened…tiny buttered potatoes served on beds of watercress…and, most delightful of all, fruit relish served in hollowed-out orange rinds.

Annabelle was so engrossed in the meal that several minutes passed before she noticed that Simon Hunt had been seated near the head of Lord Westcliff’s table. Lifting a glass of diluted wine to her lips, she glanced discreetly at him. Hunt was exquisitely dressed as usual, in a formal black coat and a rich pewter-shaded waistcoat, its silk weave gleaming with a quiet luster. His sundarkened skin contrasted sharply with the starched white linen at his throat, the knot of his cravat as precise as a knife blade. The heavy sable locks of his hair needed an application of pomade…already a thick forelock had fallen over his forehead. It bothered Annabelle for some reason, that unruly lock. She wanted to push it back from his face.

It was not lost on her that the women seated on either side of Simon Hunt were competing for his attention. Annabelle had noticed on other occasions that women seemed to find Hunt quite appealing. She knew exactly why—it was his combination of sinful charm, cool intelligence, and arrant worldliness. Hunt looked like a man who had visited many women’s beds and knew exactly what to do in them. Such a quality should make him less attractive, not more so. But Annabelle was discovering that there was sometimes a vast difference between what you knew was good for you, and what you actually wanted. And though she would have liked to deny it, Simon Hunt was the only man who had ever attracted her physically to this degree.

Although Annabelle had always been somewhat sheltered, she was acquainted with the basic facts of life. Her scant knowledge had been accumulated through hearing mention of things and putting two and two together. Annabelle had been kissed by a few different men who had shown fleeting interest in her during the past four years. But none of those kisses, no matter how romantic the setting, or how handsome the young man, had ever elicited the kind of response from her that Simon Hunt had.

Try as she might, Annabelle had never forgotten that long-ago moment in the panorama theater…the gentle, erotic pressure of his mouth on hers, the compelling pleasure of his kiss. She wished she knew why it had been so different with Hunt, but there was no one to ask. Talking to Philippa about it had been out of the question, as Annabelle had not wanted to confess that she had once accepted ticket money from a stranger. And she was hardly going to mention the incident to the other wallflowers, who clearly didn’t know anything more about kissing and men than she herself did.

As Hunt’s gaze suddenly locked with hers, Annabelle was perturbed by the realization that she had been staring at him. Staring, and fantasizing. Although they were sitting far apart from each other, she was aware of an immediate, electric connection between them…there was an arrested expression on his face, and she wondered what he saw that fascinated him so. Coloring violently, she tore her gaze away and dug her fork into a casserole of leeks and mushrooms blanketed with shavings of white truffle.

After supper, the ladies retired to the parlor for coffee and tea while the gentlemen remained at the tables for port. In the traditional style, the group would eventually reunite in the drawing room. As clusters of women laughed and chatted easily in the parlor, Annabelle sat with Evie, Lillian, and Daisy. “Have you found out anything about Lord Kendall?” she asked, hoping that one of them might have gleaned some gossip from the dinner conversation. “Is there anyone in particular whom he might have taken an interest in?”

“The field seems to be open so far,” Lillian replied.

“I asked Mother what she knew about Kendall,” Daisy supplied, “and she said that he has a sizable fortune and is unencumbered by debt.”

“How would she know?” Annabelle asked.

“At Mother’s request,” Daisy explained, “our father commissioned a written report on every eligible peer in England. And she’s memorized it. She says that the ideal suitor for either one of us would be a poverty-stricken duke whose title would guarantee the Bowmans’ social success, while our money would ensure his cooperation in the marriage.” Daisy’s smile turned sardonic, and she reached over to pat her older sister’s hand as she added. “They made up a rhyme about Lillian, back in New York…‘Marry Lillian, you’ll get a million.’ The saying became so popular that it was one of the reasons we had to leave for London. Our family looked like a bunch of gauche, overly ambitious idiots.”