MARCH 1809

THE FLURRY of lovely organza and taffeta gowns that moved in rhythm with the cheerful music of the extravagant Averly ballroom was amongst the most unbelievable and excruciating pain Lady Angela Worthington had to suffer.

The chatter and laughter of everyone not involved in the dancing aggravated the already tight muscles on her neck; and if there was anything else that could have worsened her ordeal, it was the overly lit ballroom and the embossed canary floral walls.

Too yellow, Angela's mind screamed in protest.

Even the presence of her eldest brother, Jonathan Worthington, Earl of Hargrave, and future Marquess of Hartmour, did not console her. He was currently engaged in a conversation with another man, their topic of no interest to Angela at the very least. It was enough that she had learned how the windmills down south worked. She would have preferred Edward's company, but her second oldest brother was not attending the season, nor was he planning to leave his estate in the country at all.

The people behind the music were now plucking at their instruments at an unbelievable speed, provoking what remained of Angela's control and grace. As the tempo climbed into a climactic phase, her jaw tightened and her eyes flickered to all corners with growing desperation.

She could endure further, to be honest, but the vestibule to the garden was calling out to her, tempting her into the peaceful quiet beyond. She had been throwing a look at the delicious escape since they arrived an hour ago.

Adding to her silent, albeit demanding predicament, was the woman who just sat beside her not five minutes ago. The said young lady, in Angela's assessment, was bound to the wallflower chair for the rest of the season if she did not control her desperate ogling at every gentleman that walked past them.

While Angela's straight black hair was neatly set by a dark blue chignon, the woman sitting beside her must have sat hours in front of a mirror while her maid worked with a heated iron to form the blonde ringlets that framed her face.

Angela did not realize she had been staring too long until the woman turned and their eyes met.

Drat it, Angela, she mentally cursed at herself.

Having been caught, she only had two options: smile or look away. The former would lead to a conversation that may lead to a series of tedious social exercises. The latter, however, may cause the other woman to develop an unpleasant opinion of her.

Angela's mind raced with the fast and springy music around them, and as all instruments and dancers came to a dramatic halt, she reached a verdict: she blinked and turned away from the woman just as the music and dancing resumed in a livelier explosion.

The woman may not know her, and if she did, she would understand why Lady Angela Worthington snubbed her at the Averly Ball.

She weighed the possible ramifications of what she deemed as a simple yet graceful act and was put at ease, confident that she would be spared of even the slightest gossip. The chance of that Worthington girl—meaning she, Angela, the only daughter of the Marquess of Hartmour—to be the subject of gossip was highly slim.

Now that she had made her decision about the wallflower, she went on to deal with the next problem; the woman was still a possible threat.

Angela had been to enough balls to know that the longer a woman stayed in the wallflower chair, the more desperate she would be to find a semblance of belongingness by finding someone they considered to be in a similar situation as them. At the moment, the blonde girl and Angela were the only ladies sitting along that side of the wall with their dance cards empty, but although their circumstances may appear the same, their purpose of attending the ball had nothing in common.

The woman was certainly here because she was searching for a possible match. Angela, on the other hand, was here because she was curious about Mr Ramsbury; and because her brother wanted her to be here; and her father who was not even here had been insisting that she gave this season a chance.

Looking past her brother's shoulder and that of his friend, Angela could strongly sense that the woman beside her was about to speak—to her.

Damnation! She should not have stared too long! In fact, she should not have stared at all!

She was given no other choice. It was now or never. She stood abruptly from her chair, distracting her brother and his friend, a baron from the country.

Her sea-green eyes met Jonathan's grey globes. "I will go to the gardens," she informed him in a curt, strained voice before an objection was spoken. With a forced smile, she curtsied at the two men and made her escape, finally.

A passing feeling of guilt came to her as she walked away. Was it wrong to have left a fellow wallflower alone?

Angela quickly brushed away the feeling. Surely, the woman had a companion—a brother or sister. Or perhaps a mother currently walking around the ball to find her daughter a hopeful match. And there was another wall of wallflowers at the other side of the ballroom adjacent to them. The woman may go and find others who may be more willing to welcome the company.

The music lingered and persisted in her ears for a few more seconds when she stepped out into the wide terrace of the Averly estate, where the smell of winter still lingered in the chilly spring air that greeted her.

Her brother was an acquaintance of the eldest son of Mr Phineas Ramsbury, the man who built Averly out of the overflowing fortune of the famous Ramsbury Circus.

As this was a ball attended by many of Coulway's elite, Angela decided to evade any sort of scandal by staying far from prying eyes. She stepped down from the colonnaded terrace and idly walked further and deeper into the darkness of the garden.

Tall hedges lined the path at both sides. Angela wondered if it was a maze garden; she would not be surprised if it was, considering Mr Ramsbury's reputation for entertainment.

But is it safe?

She had heard enough gossips breaking out from similar gardens. Many women found themselves engaged and shackled in less than a week, while men either ended up the same or in the middle of a field in a duel.

But it was highly unlikely that Angela would ever land into a scandal.

She took the path between two long hedges and slowed her pace, enjoying the quiet and the muffled music coming from the ballroom. Then she smiled, realizing that she was indeed in a simple maze garden.

She stole a look at the disappearing rear façade of the Averly estate, her mind wandering to the upcoming Season Fair. She had heard that Mr Ramsbury had been planning many surprises this year for all circus fanatics, and she wanted to know every detail in the next week or so.

She continued to idly walk down the path beside a wall of green hedges, and then she stiffened as she heard hushed voices approaching from behind.

Slowly, she turned her head over her shoulder and realized that she was still alone, and the voices were from the other side of the hedge.

"...and as one of my chambermaids told me, he paid a handsome sum for it."

"And who is the woman he shall marry?"

"Well, who can tell? It is still a mystery."

A soft chuckle followed, joined by another.

Three women, Angela assumed. She remained motionless, deciding to let the women walk away and disappear into the maze of the garden.

"I never took him to be a desperate man. Surely, he can find a match this season."

"He is a busy man as I was told," replied the source of the gossip. "I rather find it interesting—the method, I mean."

"Rather professional, if you ask me," concurred the third voice. "Should I ask my husband to join Stark's? Perhaps he can acquire the same service at the gentleman's club?"

"It shall be a hefty sum, Margaret, I warn you."

"If a man who owns a small business can pay for it, I'm confident my husband can afford it. My daughter is in danger, darling."

A laugh. "Your daughter should first learn how to speak, Margaret."

A long sigh. "No matter, if the gossips are true that Mr Stark has an outstanding success rate in this rather odd matchmaking service, then I am willing to spend days begging my husband to seek membership into his club."

"But who do you have in mind for your daughter?"

The voices grew faint as Lady Margaret and her friends continued their walk.

"I am thinking either of the two young Worthingtons."

Angela jumped at the mention of their name. She followed the voices, her footsteps slow and without sound.

"Do you mean Jonathan and Edward Worthington?"

"Yes."

Angela silently scoffed and shook her head. It was almost hilarious how others aspired for her brothers.

"The eldest is an earl, yes?"

And childish, too, Angela silently replied.

"The younger one, I am not certain, but I heard he studies animals."

And prefers them over humans, yes, she added, Edward's unkempt form flashing in her mind.

"Both very handsome, too, would you not agree? Although I have only chanced upon the younger one once."

The rare time he decided to be human, Angela replied with a smirk.

"If only your daughter is not an involuntary mute, darling, she may have a chance."

Angela raised her hand and started to nibble on one finger, her feet following the voices, meanwhile hoping that the hedges lasted long enough for tonight's entertainment.

"Do not be absurd. My daughter will force herself to not stammer in front of a man if she does not want to live the rest of her life alone and unmarried. She has managed to speak one full sentence to our footman last week!"

Angela was able to muffle her incredulous scoff by biting on her thumb.

"Are you certain about the Worthingtons, Margaret?" asked the third voice. "I have heard stories."

Angela frowned. Now, now, this is interesting...

She looked ahead and found that the path was soon to make a turn. Praying the hedges would not end there, she followed the voices.

Are they not going to sit and rest? She wondered to herself.

Apparently, not, because the women continued their sluggish walk, carrying their interesting conversation with them.

Angela followed, crossing her finger as she reached the turning point. She smiled inwardly when she realized the hedges continued further.

But her excitement disappeared as soon as she realized that she was no longer alone.

It was not another gossipmonger or another woman searching for a refuge or lover in the garden.

It was a man silently standing near the hedge, his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

Angela blinked as he turned his amused-looking face in her direction.

Her breath caught.

Dashing.