By the time the Scarsdale offspring had indeed married well—her fourth season, Mother said—Lady Scarsdale’s ball had become the place to be and be seen for any young woman looking for entry to society and to make a good match. While the new season’s crop of debutantes in its entirety was routinely invited to the ball, those who were in their subsequent seasons were given the prized invitation based on any number of mysterious factors known only to Lady Scarsdale and her cohorts.
This year—Dulcie’s fifth in society—the invitation to Lady Scarsdale’s ball had not been forthcoming. Mother was livid and blamed Father. Her three older sisters were nearly as distraught over the slight and vowed to redouble their efforts to find Dulcie an appropriate match.
It wasn’t as if Dulcie didn’t wish to be married. She did but she wanted to marry for reasons of affection. Dulcie Middleworth wanted love and rather feared she had found it. Pity it appeared to be one-sided.
She casually glanced across the large library in the impressive Bloomsbury mansion that housed the Explorers Club to the only other person currently in the room and tried not to sigh. Not that he would have noticed.
Michael Shepard’s gaze shifted back and forth between the book opened to his left and the notebook in front of him. His dark hair was slightly disheveled as if he had just run his hand through it as, no doubt, he had. His pen flew across the notebook page with a life of its own. Any minute now, he’d stop to push his spectacles—which had an endearing tendency to slide down his perfectly straight nose—back into place. He didn’t look up but she knew his eyes were the deepest shade of gray, like the sky on a stormy day. His shoulders were broad, which bespoke some sort of physical exercise, and he stood a good head taller than she. Not that she had ever been close enough to measure.
Dulcie and Michael—she couldn’t possibly think of him as Mr. Shepard—had each separately occupied one of the six tables in the library on very nearly a daily basis for the last three months and yet had scarcely exchanged more than a handful of polite greetings. Their conversation rarely varied.
“Good day, Mr. Shepard,” she would say when he had arrived before her. “Pleasant day” or “dreadful weather we’re having,” she would add, depending on whether or not the day was pleasant or dreadful.
“Indeed, Miss Middleworth,” he would respond with a polite smile.
Or, if she was in the library when he arrived, he would acknowledge her presence with a courteous, “Good day, Miss Middleworth.”
To which she would inevitably reply, “Good day, Mr. Shepard,” and then comment on the weather when what she really wanted to say was, “Goodness, Michael, don’t you think it’s past time you took me in your arms and kissed me senseless or threw me onto a table and had your way with me?” She would never say such a thing but she did consider what might happen if she did. He would no doubt be horribly shocked, which would at least be something.
Dulcie had never had the tiniest problem talking, even flirting, with gentlemen before. But there was something about Michael Shepard that turned her from a self-assured young woman into the worst sort of shy, retiring creature. But then most gentlemen were far more eager to talk to her than she was to talk to them whereas Michael barely acknowledged her existence.
He was not substantially older than she, four or five years perhaps, and was acknowledged to be brilliant in matters of history and botany and any number of other disciplines encouraged by the Explorers Club among those promising young men who showed a legitimate interest in exploration and discovery. In spite of his scholarly bent, there was an air of anticipation about Michael. A promise of adventure and excitement just waiting to come to fruition. It permeated the library when he was present and was both intriguing and most intoxicating. Indeed, Michael was set to join an expedition in another month. Which was rather awkward as it did limit the time Dulcie had to earn his affections. If that was what she wished to do.
She already knew a great deal about him. Information was not at all hard to come by in the rarified atmosphere of the Explorers Club. While ladies were not allowed to be members—God forbid one should even think of such a thing—wives of members had banded together years ago to form the Ladies Committee. They were graciously permitted to plan social activities, dinners honoring outstanding members—even if they were not always allowed to attend—as well as assist in the management of the club’s library and extensive collection of artifacts and memorabilia from its supported expeditions. Dulcie had become acquainted with several ladies who were frequently in the library. Many of whom had a great deal of free time as their husbands were off in some barely accessible part of the world, hacking their way through tropical jungles or digging for evidence of ancient civilizations.
The ladies were an interesting lot with the sort of freedom usually allowed widows and an independent spirit that was most admirable. But then they had little choice. Their husbands had decided to explore the unknown and their wives were left behind to make certain home was ready and waiting for those rare moments when they chanced to be in England. It didn’t seem at all fair but it was the way of things. Dulcie had become quite good friends with one of the ladies. Mrs. Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore was here somewhere today although she did have the oddest tendency to vanish and then reappear at the most unexpected moments. She had taken an interest in Dulcie’s work as she had confided she was something of an artist herself and was most impressed that Dulcie was actually being paid for her labor. She insisted Dulcie call her Poppy as Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore was a bit of a mouthful.
The fact that Dulcie had the opportunity to work at her art at all was thanks to Father. Dulcie was twelve years younger than the sister nearest to her in age and, after three daughters, Father had hoped his last, unexpected child would be male. When yet another daughter had appeared, Father was resigned but determined. His youngest daughter would be the son he never had. He encouraged her to become an excellent horsewoman and a superb shot. While Mother tried to instill in her all those attributes needed to run a household and be an accomplished hostess, Father taught her the details of managing an estate and had passed on his interest in all things ancient and all parts unknown. And indeed, while her sisters were everything her mother could wish for in dutiful daughters, Dulcie was her father’s child. When she wanted to study art after she had completed a level of education above that of her sisters, Mother was appalled. But Father declared even females should be encouraged to pursue higher learning should they be blessed with natural abilities. Dulcie would never forget the shocked look on Mother’s face as Father was not known for his progressive attitudes. Even so, he not only allowed her to attend the South Kensington School of Art but used his influence at the Explorers Club to secure her current position. Father had been a member of the Explorers Club nearly forever even though he had never explored anything beyond a good brandy and a fine cigar.
Perhaps Father was tolerant of her dreams because he had once had far-fetched dreams of his own. While there were a handful of female illustrators making their way in the world, there were even fewer English lords abandoning responsibility for the excitement of following poor Dr. Livingstone into the jungles of Africa. Still, there was nothing Father liked better than inviting those gentlemen who pursued such adventures into his home for a fine meal, excellent brandy and even better conversation. Dinner was often host, as well, to interesting young men who were hoping to follow in the footsteps of Mr. Burton or other explorers, although Father hadn’t started inviting them until after her sisters were married. They were indeed quite exciting and usually somewhat flirtatious, at least when Mother wasn’t glaring at them. Mother did not consider them suitable marriage material. Dulcie knew full well she was somewhere in the middle in terms of appearance with her older sisters but they were, all in all, a pretty lot. Dark hair in varying shades, blue eyes and fetching figures. Although her forthright demeanor and obvious intelligence soon dampened the ardor of most gentlemen visitors. Still, there had been one or two...
That Michael Shepard had not shown even a modicum of interest in her might well be one of the reasons why he was so undeniably appealing. It couldn’t possibly be anything more significant than that. She certainly couldn’t claim to know him although it was shocking how much information Poppy and her friends had about the man. Surely she couldn’t be so shallow as to be swept away by the fact that he had no interest in her. No, if that were the case, she