Everyone had been polite, even if she could tell they all wondered about her. It was no different than any other event she attended. She never fit in with high society, mostly because she didn’t care what they thought. Their strict rules and traditions were ridiculous. Two girls Florence had debuted with four years ago had already been ostracized by society: one for divorcing her philandering husband and the other for daring to criticize Mrs. Fish’s hat within earshot of the older woman. Florence wanted no part of a world where women were not free to speak and do as they pleased.

If only I had been born a hundred years from now.

“A penny for your thoughts.” The older gentleman on her right, Mr. Connors, had leaned in to ask the question. Cologne assaulted her nose with the subtlety of a charging elephant.

She angled away and tried not to draw a deep breath. “Merely enjoying the duck.”

“You haven’t taken one bite that I’ve noticed.”

Why was he watching her so closely? Connors was in his late forties or early fifties, his wife having died some fifteen years prior. She had met him many times since her debut, as New York high society wasn’t that large. Everyone knew everyone, really. This was the first time she had been seated next to him at dinner, however. Thank you, Mamie.

She put down her wineglass and picked up her fork. “It’s impolite to call a lady a liar.”

“Fair enough,” he said through a chuckle. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Of course. Are you?”

“I’ve been observing you, Miss Greene. Though you appear beautiful as always, I don’t believe you’re having much fun this evening.”

“I just have a lot on my mind, is all.” What else could she give as a reason? Certainly not the truth, as Mr. Connors matched the age of almost everyone here.

“And what would a young woman like you need to worry about?”

She didn’t care for his patronizing tone. “Oh, I wouldn’t wish to bore you.”

“That’s just the thing.” He angled toward her and lowered his voice. “I find it hard to believe anything about you would ever bore me.”

“I . . .” Her voice trailed off. Was he flirting with her? Coming from a man her own age the answer would be yes. But Mr. Connors was much older. Perhaps he was merely terrible at making polite conversation.

She cleared her throat. “My father certainly wishes I were more boring.”

If she thought the mention of her father would put a stop to this awkwardness, she was proven wrong when Connors said, “Well, I’m not your father and I find you rather refreshing.”