A Stark Mismatch

I. A Stark Gossip

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.