Page 20 of The Botanist’s Improper Bride

Seraphina murmured something along the same lines, too distracted by the Blackwell brothers to pay much attention. They were both handsome in a stern way, although Mr. Blackwell’s beard softened his features, making him more approachable.

They looked very alike.

She tried to recall if she’d ever seen them together before, but couldn’t think of any such instance.

Strange.

In any case, the Blackwell family resemblance was incredibly clear. No doubt their children would look similar too.

She and Letitia made their way along the line and then entered the ballroom, which smelled faintly of flowers but wasn’t overpowering. The decor was classy but understated, as she had expected from the tasteful Lady Blackwell.

She was just turning to Letitia to ask if she’d noted the close resemblance between the Blackwell brothers, but before she got the words out, a rather dashing gentleman with golden-blond hair and strong shoulders appeared in front of her and bowed.

Racking her mind, she tried to recall where she knew him from, grateful that his name came to her quickly. “Mr. Farnsworth, how lovely to see you.”

“And you, Miss Dalton. I was hoping I might be able to claim your first dance.”

Seraphina turned to Letitia, not wanting to abandon her friend, but Letitia just nodded.

“Go and enjoy yourself,” she said, ushering Seraphina away. “I’ll find a drink, a piece of cake, and a nice corner to hide in.”

“Are you sure you don’t wish to dance?” Seraphina hated to leave her, especially when she was beginning to wonder if Letitia was quite as content with her spinster status as she wanted everyone to think.

“Lord, yes. I’m not sure I’d remember the steps at this point.”

With that, Letitia spun away and marched toward the refreshments. Seraphina set her hand on Mr. Farnsworth’s, and he whisked her onto the dance floor, where a string quartet was playing the opening strains of a quadrille.

He danced well, and she enjoyed it, but when they finished, she didn’t get the opportunity to retreat to Letitia’s corner. Instead, she was inundated with potential suitors who, after seeing her dance with Mr. Farnsworth, seemed satisfied that their reputations wouldn’t be destroyed by pursuing her.

Realizing that she needed to begin testing their suitability against her list of criteria, she tried to make conversation. She’d just read an article about Mr. Faraday’s recent demonstrations at the Royal Institution, and she used that as a discussion opener, but to a man, they either dismissed the growing popularity of the demonstrations as being due to the theatrics or suggested—kindly, of course—that she might be more interested in the attire of their fellow guests than boring scientific lectures.

It was exhausting.

She tried other topics, but no one was interested in discussing anything of substance. It was as if they believed that a woman who had the qualities society deemed most desirable in a woman and enjoyed dancing and style couldn’t have any other thoughts in her pretty little head.

It was partly her own fault. She’d cultivated a certain reputation in order to protect her work, and she was just now realizing she might regret that strategy when it meant that no one took her seriously.

She was considering what approach to take next when she glanced across the room and saw a face that made her stop in her tracks.

Trevor, Lord Fitzgerald.

What on earth was he doing at a ball? From what she knew of him, the man avoided social gatherings like they personally offended him.

Nevertheless, she was glad to see him. She’d wanted to call on him, but it wasn’t exactly appropriate. She took a moment to study him. There had always been an openness about Trevor that she liked. He didn’t dissemble. She wasn’t sure he knew how.

Tonight, he was dressed more formally than she’d ever seen him, in dark breeches and a forest green waistcoat over a tidy white shirt. His cravat was tied perfectly, but as she watched, he reached up and tugged at it, clearly uncomfortable. He’d never liked to wear anything tight around his neck. It drove Lady Wembley crazy that he preferred to have the top button or two of his shirt undone.

Seraphina had always found it endearing.

The green of his waistcoat complemented his faintly tanned skin and warm brown eyes perfectly, and the cut of his tailcoat emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips.

He looked good.

There was absolutely no way his choice of attire tonight was his own doing. Had it been his mother or Letitia who’d escorted him to the tailor?

Perhaps both.

At that moment, he glanced up, and their gazes locked. His lips tipped up in the slightest of smiles, but from him, it may as well have been a toothy grin. Trevor wasn’t the most effusive man.