“Any peer?” Lillian asked skeptically. “What about good looks?”

Annabelle shrugged. “Welcome, but not necessary.”

“What about passion?” Daisy inquired.

“Decidedly unwelcome.”

“Intelligence?” Evangeline suggested.

Annabelle shrugged. “Negotiable.”

“Charm?” Lillian asked.

“Also negotiable.”

“You don’t want much,” Lillian remarked dryly. “As for me, I would have to add a few conditions. My peer would have to be dark-haired and handsome, a wonderful dancer…and he would never ask permission before he kissed me.”

“I want to marry a man who has read the entire collected works of Shakespeare,” Daisy said. “Someone quiet and romantic—better yet if he wears spectacles— and he should like poetry and nature, and I shouldn’t like him to be too experienced with women.”

Her older sister lifted her eyes heavenward. “We won’t be competing for the same men, apparently.”

Annabelle looked at Evangeline Jenner. “What kind of husband would suit you, Miss Jenner?”

“Evie,” the girl murmured, her blush deepening until it clashed with her fiery hair. She struggled with her reply, extreme bashfulness warring with a strong instinct for privacy. “I suppose…I would like s-s-someone who was kind and…” Stopping, she shook her head with a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t know. Just someone who would l-love me. Really love me.”

The words touched Annabelle, and filled her with sudden melancholy. Love was a luxury she had never allowed herself to hope for—a distinctly superfluous issue when her very survival was so much in question. However, she reached out and touched the girl’s gloved hand with her own. “I hope you find him,” she said sincerely. “Perhaps you won’t have to wait for long.”

“I want you to find yours first,” Evie said, with a bashful smile. “I wish I could help you somehow.”

“It seems that we all need help, in one form or another,” Lillian commented. Her gaze slid over Annabelle with friendly speculation. “Hmm…I wouldn’t mind making a project of you.”

“What?” Annabelle arched her brows, wondering whether she ought to be amused or offended.

Lillian proceeded to explain. “There are only a few weeks left in the season, and this is your last, I assume. Practically speaking, your aspirations of marrying a man who is your social equal will vanish at the end of June.”

Annabelle nodded warily.

“Then I propose—” Suddenly Lillian fell silent in midsentence.

Following the direction of her gaze, Annabelle saw a dark figure approaching, and she groaned inwardly.

The intruder was Mr. Simon Hunt—a man whom none of them wanted anything to do with—and with good reason.

“Parenthetically,” Annabelle said in a low voice, “my ideal husband would be the exact opposite of Mr. Hunt.”

“What a surprise,” Lillian murmured sardonically, for they all shared the sentiment.

One could forgive a man for being a climber, if he possessed a sufficient quantity of gentlemanly grace. However, Simon Hunt did not. There was no making polite conversation with a man who always said exactly what he thought, no matter how unflattering or objectionable his opinions.

Perhaps one might call Mr. Hunt good-looking. Annabelle supposed that some women might find his robust masculinity appealing—even she had to admit that there was something compelling about the sight of all that bridled power contained in a crisp formal scheme of black-and-white evening clothes. However, Simon Hunt’s arguable attractions were completely overridden by the churlishness of his character. There was no sensitive aspect to his nature, no idealism or appreciation of elegance…he was all pounds and pence, all selfish, grasping calculation. Any other man in his situation would have had the decency to be embarrassed by his own lack of refinement—but Hunt had apparently decided to make a virtue of it. He loved to mock the rituals and graces of aristocratic civility, his cold black eyes glittering with amusement—as if he were laughing at them all.

To Annabelle’s relief, Hunt had never indicated by word or gesture that he remembered that long-ago day at the panorama show when he had stolen a kiss from her in the darkness. As time had passed, she had even half convinced herself that she had imagined the whole thing. In retrospect, it didn’t seem real, especially her own fervid response to an audacious stranger.

No doubt many people shared Annabelle’s dislike of Simon Hunt, but to the dismay of London’s upper tiers, he was there to stay. In the past few years he had become incomparably rich, having acquired majority interests in companies that manufactured agricultural equipment, ships, and locomotive engines. Despite Hunt’s coarseness, he was invited to upper-class parties because he was simply too wealthy to be ignored. Hunt personified the threat that industrial enterprise posed to the British aristocracy’s centuries-old entrenchment in estate farming. Therefore, the peerage regarded him with concealed hostility even as they unwillingly allowed him access to their hallowed social circles. Worse still, Hunt made no pretense at humility, but instead seemed to enjoy forcing his way into places where he wasn’t wanted.

On the few occasions they had met since that day at the panorama, Annabelle had treated Simon Hunt coldly, dismissing any attempts at conversation and refusing his every invitation to dance. He always seemed amused by her disdain and stared at her with a bold appraisal that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She hoped that someday he would abandon all interest in her, but for the time being he remained annoyingly persistent.