Or one could have been born a boy. They didn’t have to learn to play instruments and sacrifice their dignity upon an altar of public humiliation.

It was really quite unfair.

But back to marriage. Her three seasons in London had not been complete failures. Just this past summer, two gentlemen had asked for her hand in marriage. And even though she’d known she was probably consigning herself to another year at the sacrificial pianoforte, she’d refused them both.

She didn’t need a mad, bad passion. She was far too practical to believe that everyone found her true love—or even that everyone had a true love. But a lady of one-and-twenty shouldn’t have to marry a man of sixty-three.

As for the other proposal . . . Sarah sighed. The gentleman had been an uncommonly affable fellow, but every time he counted to twenty (and he seemed to do so with strange frequency), he skipped the number twelve.

Sarah didn’t need to wed a genius, but was it really too much to hope for a husband who could count?

“Marriage,” she said to herself.

“What was that?” Frances asked, still peering at her from above the back of the sofa. Harriet and Elizabeth were busy with their own pursuits, which was just as well, because Sarah didn’t really need an audience beyond an eleven-year-old when she announced:

“I have got to get married this year. If I don’t, I do believe I will simply die.”

Hugh Prentice paused briefly at the doorway to the drawing room, then shook his head and moved on. Sarah Pleinsworth, if his ears were correct, and they usually were.

Yet another reason he hadn’t wanted to attend this wedding.

Hugh had always been a solitary soul, and there were very few people whose company he deliberately sought. But at the same time, there weren’t many people he avoided, either.

His father, of course.

Convicted murderers.

And Lady Sarah Pleinsworth.

Even if their first meeting hadn’t been a mind-numbingly mad disaster, they would never have been friends. Sarah Pleinsworth was one of those dramatic females given to hyperbole and grand announcements. Hugh did not normally study the speech patterns of others, but when Lady Sarah spoke, it was difficult to ignore her.

She used far too many adverbs. And exclamation points.

Plus, she despised him. This was not conjecture on his part. He had heard her utter the words. Not that this bothered him; he didn’t much care for her, either. He just wished she’d learn to be quiet.

Like right now. She was going to die if she did not get married this year. Really.

Hugh gave his head a little shake. At least he would not have to attend that wedding.

He’d almost got out of this one, too. But Daniel Smythe-Smith had insisted, and when Hugh had pointed out that this wasn’t even his wedding, Daniel had leaned back in his chair and said that this was his sister’s wedding, and if they were to convince the rest of society that they had put their differences behind them, Hugh had better bloody well show up with a smile on his face.