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even dressed yet.” Immediately Blythe regretted the poor choice of words. She oughtn’t have drawn attention to that fact with James present.
    “A task delayed is a task that will likely never be done,” Mrs. Crompton said. “It will only take you a moment.”
    Blythe wrestled with the urge to refuse, then swallowed her pride and padded barefoot to the dainty writing desk in a corner. She sat down and pulled a note card from one of the cubbyholes. While she selected a quill pen and uncorked the inkpot, her mother kept up a stream of instructions.
    “Take care to use your finest penmanship. Don’t rush as you are often wont to do. Now is not the time for blots or crossed-out words.”
    “Of course , Mama.”
    “Now, as to the wording.” Mrs. Crompton walked back and forth while dictating, “‘To His Grace of Savoy, I am delighted to be in receipt of your excellent gift.’” She paused. “No, change that to ‘your superior gift.’ That way he will know you consider it to be much finer than anything sent by your other suitors.”
    Blythe compressed her lips. Did Mama think her incapable of writing a simple note? Apparently so, but with James standing within earshot near the door, she was loath to make a fuss. Releasing her breath in a huff, she dipped the sharpened end of the quill into the ink and began to write, the pen scratching over the paper.
    Mrs. Crompton went on, “‘It was extremely kind of you to have sent my favorite chocolates. Please know that your thoughtfulness has brightened my day.’ Start a new paragraph. ‘Last evening was a very special night for me.’”
    For no reason at all, Blythe saw herself back in the sitting room with James as he’d pressed a glass of champagne into her hand. She blocked the image at once. How irksome to keep dwelling upon that inconsequential scene.
    She continued to write as her mother dictated, “‘I hope you will not think me too forward in confessing that I will forever treasure the memory of our dance together. I shall wait with great anticipation for you to call upon me at your convenience.’”
    “I can’t say that,” Blythe objected. “It sounds as if I’m commanding him to visit me.”
    “And why shouldn’t you? Men are very flattered to know that a beautiful young lady is pining for them. Especially one as wealthy as you.”
    “But—” Blythe bit her lip to keep from blurting out that she wanted to be liked for herself, not for her dowry. Yet wasn’t that what the Marriage Mart was all about, the upper crust entering into alliances based on money and rank? She knew that well, for she and Mama had devoted weeks to weighing the merits of potential husbands.
    The Duke of Savoy was the catch of the season. Although stuffy and a bit patronizing, he seemed to be a pleasant enough man, and she had confidence in her ability to breach his reserve in time.
    So why was she put off today by her mother’s maneuvering? Perhaps it seemed crass because James stood there at attention. She didn’t like to appear cold and covetous, not even to a servant.
    “Now where was I?” Mrs. Crompton said. “Oh, yes. ‘Please convey my deepest regards to Lady Davina. Yours very truly, etc.’”
    Blythe completed the note, although toning down the gushy bit about treasuring their dance together and expecting him to call on her. Then she sprinkled a bit of sand over it to soak up any excess ink. After tapping off the fine grains into a waste bin, she folded the paper before her mother could check it for accuracy.
    She was reaching for the small gold knob embossed with her initials when James appeared at her side. “Allow me,” he murmured.
    He held a lighted candle which he used to melt a little blob of red sealing wax onto the paper. Blythe impressed the oval of her stamp to close the note. She was far too conscious of him standing only inches from her. Schooling her features into an impassive mask, she glanced up to give him instructions as to where to