Letty braced herself for what was to come. For the past two weeks, Laurence Darlington had been doing a good impression of a man falling in love. It was one of the better impressions she’d seen this year, although not as good as Sir Charles Stanton’s. That had been masterful.

Laurence Darlington gazed ardently into her eyes. A very handsome man, Darlington. The most handsome of this year’s crop of fortune hunters. And up to his ears in debt.

“Miss Trentham,” Darlington said, emotion throbbing in his voice. “What I am about to say can surely come as no surprise to you.”

No. No surprise.

Letty heard the proposal with weary resignation. It was a pretty speech. Darlington wasn’t fool enough to call her beautiful; instead, he praised her character and her intelligence. Even so, his words resonated with falsehood. When he finished, he said passionately, “There is no one I would rather marry. No one! You are everything I could ever wish for in a wife.” The first half of that statement rang with a clear, bell-like tone. It was actually the truth. The second half gave a discordant clang in Letty’s ears.

“I lay my heart at your feet.”

Darlington was a good actor. He did almost look like a man who’d laid his heart at his lover’s feet.

“Miss Trentham?”

Letty glanced up. A man stood before her. He was tall, taller than Darlington, and broad in the shoulder. He was dressed for dancing in a tailcoat and knee breeches and silk stockings, but despite those clothes he looked as if he had no place at the Hammonds’ ball. No languid tulip of the ton, this man. He was whipcord lean, his skin tanned brown, his expression unsmiling. He looked almost dangerous.

Letty felt a slight flare of nervousness. She looked for the footman. Yes, he still manned the refreshment table.