Lady Pamela by Amy Lake Page B

him, Lady Detweiler decided. So few people had the capacity to surprise her anymore.
    She nodded at her partner. “I believe you are correct. But I’m at a loss to understand it.”
    “The gentleman has been rejected, I think.”
    “Perhaps–”
    “And the lady, also.”
    Amanda frowned, about to demur, but Lord Burgess’s words had struck a chord, and the chord reverberated within her, shook her until she saw the possibility of what he had said. The lady, also. Was it not rejection , indeed, that she had seen on Lady Pamela’s face for the past half year? And perhaps that was why she, Lady Detweiler, had been unable to put a name to it.
    Pamela Sinclair, rejected? ’Twas unheard of, unthinkable.
    Amanda clung to the arms of Lord Burgess as the waltz continued, her thoughts flying.
     What possible combination of events could produce two people, each feeling rejected by the other? And why would Pam feel in any way scorned by a man who loved her, and who had asked for her hand?
    ’Twas a puzzle, and highly frustrating for Lady Detweiler, who was accustomed to knowing more about her friends’ affairs than they did themselves. Lady Pamela could have explained the situation–but Lady Pamela chose not to. Amanda would respect her refusal.
    Which wasn’t the same as giving up pursuit of an explanation, and if the lady was not forthcoming, answers must be sought from the gentleman. Lord Torrance was new in town, without family or associations, but Lady Detweiler could think of one individual who might know more of how matters stood from his grace’s point of view. Contacting this individual, on the other hand, might prove difficult for a lady of the ton .
    Although not for a gentleman.
    “Lord Burgess,” she began. “I wonder if I might trouble you for your assistance in a small matter...”
     

CHAPTER SIX
     
    Amanda had not insisted they stay late at the ball, to Lady Pamela’s relief, and she awoke the next morning at her usual hour. The smell of rain lingered fresh in the air, and she told herself it would be a fine day to trim the rosebushes in the back garden.
    She gathered the necessary tools and tromped outside. Lady Pamela did much of her own gardening, a peculiarity not widely imitated in the ton . The rose bushes, especially, she would let no-one else touch, and Maggie had often despaired of the scratches that sometimes appeared on her mistress’s face and hands.
    Amanda only shrugged at the frequent evidence of Lady Pamela’s pastoral eccentricities.
    “There is dirt in gardens, is there not?” she would say, as if that was reason enough to
    avoid them. But Lady Pamela found the work relaxing, and she would not wish to spend her days without the perfume of roses that filled the spring air, or without seeing the fresh green of bracken tucked into an odd corner, the brilliant gleam of blue aster against a low rock wall. Gardens asked so little of one, responded so abundantly to the smallest amounts of care.
    Gardens were nothing like people.
    Sécateur in hand, Lady Pamela began pruning a fine China rose.
    Snip.
    She was not thinking of the evening before. She was not thinking of the Marthwaite’s ball or her waltz with Lord Torrance.
    Snip.
    She was not remembering his face, how his expression had changed when she had spoken of requirements, and standards, and acceptable ladies . The Duke of Grentham had no fine opinion of her, it was clear, but she was not thinking of that at all .
    Lady Pamela’s boudoir had been filled with flowers on that morning, offerings from gentlemen with whom she had danced, or spoken, or those who had only admired her from afar. ’Twas as it always was, after such an occasion.
    Snip.
    But not from the duke. No card, even, to express his pleasure at the occasion of renewing their acquaintance. He had chosen not to make the smallest gesture of goodwill.
    “Oh–” Lady Pamela’s hand slipped, and the sécateur ’s cut went astray. A perfect, wine-red rosebud fell to