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her own worth, but also knew with solid certainty that it was not a thing a man was likely to appreciate, since she could not dress it up behind a softly-rounded limbs and a pretty face.
    Yet he sought her out to talk, and stared at her through the evening, until she did not know what to do.
    She did not admire his character, but oh, there was still a little tug of yearning within her for his attention. He so epitomized the perfect man, in looks at least, with such a square jaw, straight nose, his thick, wavy black hair and warm blue eyes under mobile eyebrows. He had a way of tilting his head and listening to a woman that made her feel she was the only one in the room. A useful trick, that, when he was besieged by two or three women at a time. He was so relaxed, in everything he did, as if mastery came easily to him and he need never strive. A small curl rode often in one corner of his mouth as if he laughed inside at them all, or at life itself.
    He was tall and broad and leanly muscled, the exact shape to sui t fashion, and while he wore his coats a little looser than true dandyism dictated he set them off so well no one could find him lacking.
    Now it seemed she had caught his eye, she feared he played some trick on her for his own amusement. Was he so petty? I t was hard to guess. Possibly, if Mrs Langston and her ilk were failing to keep him busy in the bedroom.
    She fumbled at her task, sighed, and began again more carefully. The lacing of her dress was awkward to tie alone, but she was accustomed to managing w ithout help. The dress had been made loose enough she had space within to contort to button it up the back. Perhaps when she had finally scraped together enough money for the material for another evening dress - in some far-distant future - she would make it to button up the front. A lowering concession that, to make it obvious she must dress without a servant. But sometimes practicality must win out over pride.
    Braiding and pinning her hair did not take long, with the simple style she had adopted. A soft n autilus bun then two thin braids coming from beneath, one to wrap the edge of the bun, the other to form a headband. She debated over whether to put her single strand of pearls around her neck or in her hair again, and settled on her neck. The pin curls around her face and neck had very little spring in them after the day of wear, but she had no curling iron and was not deft with the tool anyway. Singed hair was hardly a charming scent to have drifting around a woman. 
    There. She looked respectable enough. She would do. And if she played only quiet, sedate melodies she might spend the entire evening hidden at the instrument without Mrs Trent shifting her on. That, then, would be her goal.
    The drawing rooms were crowded, the company in good humor. There were card tables in the corner and she could smell the faint scent of tobacco from the open doors so no doubt more of the men were out on the terrace. Now she was here it was pleasant enough, and she took her seat at the piano and opened one of her precious folios of music with a faint smile. She liked to play.
    She started softly so as not to startle the company, a gentle air by Charles Dibden that made her think of lilacs in a spring garden, sweet and fresh. This one she played from memory. Then she moved into a sonatina by Ignaz Pleyel, closing her eyes to better enjoy the soft, lilting qualities of it. The Irish air by Hadyn that she chose next, she did not know so well, and followed the music she had carefully written out by hand from a copy owned by the Trents.
    "May I turn the pages for you, Miss Preston?" said Mr Holbrook, speaking from behind her right shoulder.
    She faltered, missed a note, recovered and went on. "Thank you, but I think I can manage alone."
    He came to stand where he could see her face, and leaned against the piano. "You play extremely well."
    "You are kind to say it."
    "It's no more than the truth. I wouldn't have thought you'd