Marry Lord Denningham indeed! The very thought sent the angry blood racing through her veins.
Why, she would rather be an old maid like Miss Tabitha Mainwaring, or a nun in the Convent of the Sacred Heart, and wear ugly black robes all her life, than be wife to a wretch like that!
The silk snapped short under too hasty fingers, and the song ended in a gasp of indignation, as she recalled the insolently apprising glance of half-closed blue eyes.
She hated Lord Denningham.
How tiresome this work was! She had pricked her finger, and stained the green satin. It was most annoying, but no wonder things went wrong when she thought of that man.
And he might have killed that poor Mr. Berrington when they fought together. The colour was rising to her cheeks now, and the silk she tugged at in such desperation was becoming woefully knotted.
They had fought, of course, because—well—because Lord Denningham had insulted Mr. Berrington's honour.
But her woman's vanity—in spite of repression—brought a flickering dimple to her cheek as she told herself quite silently that she had been at the root of the quarrel. Not that she cared for the husks of affection which Lord Denningham offered her.
Lady Helmington, in loquacious mood, had given her an insight as to how much his so-called love was worth. The memory of that lady's conversation brought the blush to her cheek.
But Michael!