Staring at her. She darted behind a potted palm praying no dirt would mar the pristine condition of her white ball gown. A quick glance from behind a particularly large leaf told her she was still the object of his attention. Drat, she’d never accomplish a single goal if that man insisted on marking her with his attentions. Although, admittedly, she’d done her fair share of staring at him. She’d first caught sight of him last week at the Fauntley rout and smiled graciously, before she’d known who he was, of course. Once he’d entered the room, it was as though all the other eligible bachelors faded into the walls, leaving only him. She’d gazed at his tall, broad form and dark hair in raptures. At last, a newcomer to the Ton. A man who wouldn’t know her reputation and scorn her at once. Unfortunately, the whispers of his reputation quickly circled the ballroom, filling her heart with disappointment. Who cared if he was a Marquis? With his tarnished name, he may as well have been a chimney sweep for all the good he’d do her.
