Georgette said. Amy Hardwick drew in a steadying breath as she and her friend Lady Georgette Danforth minced about the Beresford’s loud ballroom. “Mr. Crawford is sensible, not stuffy, and he has not proposed.” “Only because I snatched you away from certain doom,” Georgette grumbled as she twirled a blond curl around her finger. “I saw the disapproval in his expression just before we left Hampshire.” “He was disappointed that I would be away all of the spring season,” Amy said. The day before she’d journeyed with Georgette and her family to London, Mr. Frederick Crawford had asked her if they had an “understanding.” Amy had bitten her lip and looked at the ground, hesitating to make a commitment. He’d taken her arm and said he was glad she’d agreed. They were both practical people and well suited. For a moment, she’d wanted to reproach him for his presumption, but she’d swallowed the words. After five previous seasons, she could not afford to be anything but realistic about her marriage prospects.
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