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mixture of the three. Tresham, annoying man, had only said when she asked that Heyward was a dry old stick, but Rosalie had said nonsense, the earl was a
young
man, though she did not believe she had ever actually seen him. Which meant, of course, that he might still be a dry stick, whatever
that
was.
    Anyway, it was just a dance, albeit the most important, most anticipated one of her life.
    She was up ridiculously early in the morning. At just after seven o’clock she was at the open window of her bedchamber, barefoot and still in her nightgown, her forearms resting along the sill, her bosom propped on her forearms, her back arched inward. She gazed out upon gray early morning drizzle, but rather than allow the inclement weather to dampen her spirits, she sighed with contentment.
    Today—within the next few hours—her real life would begin.
    She was to be presented to the queen. There was a little flutter of excitement, perhaps even of nervousness, deep in her stomach at the prospect. And then she would be
free
. Free to enjoy all the myriad activities of the Season while searching for the man of her dreams.
    Angeline sighed again, more wistfully this time.
    She had already found him once, of course. Except that she had not set eyes upon him since that day at the Rose and Crown Inn and would probably never do so again. It would be very romantic to pine for him for the rest of her life but not at all practical. She would grow old and be a spinster and an unpaid nanny to all the children Tresham would produce once he had finished sowing his wild oats and taken a wife. And eventually she would shrivel up like a dried prune and be nothing but a burden to all her nephews and niecesand great-nephews and great-nieces and on down the generations while she relived the ever-dimming memory of the one meeting she had had with the love of her life when she was nineteen.
    It all sounded ridiculously pathetic. And ridiculously … well, ridiculous.
    She was going to put him right out of her mind from this moment on. There, it was already done. Tonight she would meet other gentlemen—hordes of them, if Ferdinand was to be believed. Tonight she would begin to fall in love again.
    But her thoughts were distracted at that moment by the sounds of a small commotion in Grosvenor Square below her window. She leaned forward on her forearms and peered downward.
    Marsh, Tresham’s head groom, was standing down there holding onto the bridle of a horse that was literally champing at the bit in its eagerness to be off on its morning gallop. And Tresham, all black and long-legged in form-fitting riding clothes, was hurrying down the steps, pulling on his riding gloves as he went. He swung himself up into the saddle, and even as Angeline watched, he assumed instant command of his restless mount and rode off without further ado.
    Angeline was assailed by a wave of envy bordering on jealousy.
    He must be going for an early morning ride in Hyde Park. She would give anything in the world to be going with him. It was chilly and windy and ever so slightly drizzly, all weather conditions that would make almost any delicately nurtured female shudder with distaste and cling tenaciously to the indoors until the sun deigned to make an appearance.
    But she was not a delicate female.
    Cousin Rosalie had not said exactly when she would arrive to supervise while Betty got Angeline all decked out in her court finery, but it would probably be ten o’clock at the very earliest. That gave her almost three hours to kick her heels. Or to …
    Her hair would get damp.
    Not if she wore her oldest—and still her favorite—riding hat. Besides, damp hair dried quickly.
    Her complexion would turn rosy.
    She would look vibrantly healthy among all the wilting lilies who would also be making their come-out. It never hurt to stand out from the crowd. And the worst of the shine would have faded from her nose and cheeks before she needed to leave the house again.
    Marsh would