It had been, he acknowledged, a very odd Season, and that was entirely down to Miss Henrietta Gaydon. He rather enjoyed his freedom, his bachelor existence, and had not previously considered giving it up since the failed romance of his youth. Now he had considered it, considered it very seriously. He was an analytical sort of man and had therefore attempted to analyse why he found Miss Gaydon so attractive. She was undoubtedly beautiful, but then he had seen many beauties without ever considering marriage. She was unusual. She was quite bright, though of course not highly educated. She did not look at him with blank incomprehension when he made dry witticisms, unlike the majority of young women. He had sat down and imagined actually living with her in his house, seeing her upon a daily basis, and found the thought appealing. That the physical aspect of having such a wife would be appealing he took as read, and set to one side. Thus, in a way, he had fallen in love with Miss Gaydon in a cerebral and clinical manner, and had come to the decision that he would make her an offer having weighed upon the scales both advantages and disadvantages.

He had let her know that he was serious, this last week, and she must be aware that an offer for her hand was imminent, but he had just one small doubt about whether such an offer would be accepted, and he would not ask where he might meet rejection. He had no doubt whatsoever that Lord Elstead, prompted by his wife, would welcome his request, which ought to be the same as Miss Gaydon accepting him, but she was not the sort of girl whom he considered totally malleable, and that was one of her attractions. When he had first shown interest in her she had been as divorced from deep emotion as he was himself, but of late she had seemed as though she was not impervious to him, for her eyes brightened when he approached, and she seemed pleased to see him.

‘Miss Gaydon,’ he whispered, ‘I am inopportune. I have something I wish to ask you, but this is, I can see, not the time, and almost certainly not the ideal place, but … Are you attending to me, Miss Gaydon?’

‘Mr Newbold? Oh, I am so very sorry. What must you think of me?’ He did not answer that. ‘It is just that my cousin has had some … distressing news today, and … I share her sorrow.’

‘I am sorry, ma’am. I take it this is not some family bereavement, however.’

‘No, no, and yet, in some ways much worse.’

He looked suitably astounded. ‘Worse?’

‘Well, worse than the death of some relative one barely knows, and may never have seen, yet for whom one has to wear black gloves or abstain from dancing.’