“There is nothing to forgive,” Dorothea replied firmly.

“Well, if you are certain.” Mr. Pengrove’s brow creased in a worried frown. He shook it off, then stood and held out his hand. “We must not stay out here alone any longer. I am worried that Mother will notice our absence and remark upon it to someone.”

Dorothea hesitated. She was not ready to return. She needed a few moments alone to collect her thoughts and harness the remaining bits of her disappointment, for when she had left the ballroom earlier, she had firmly believed she would be reentering it as an engaged woman.

“You go ahead without me,” Dorothea said. “I should like to enjoy a few more minutes in solitude, taking in the fresh air before returning to the crush of the party.”

Mr. Pengrove’s face darkened in distress. “I would never be so ungallant as to leave a lady unattended in such a secluded area of the garden. Who knows what might happen?”

“I’m sure it is perfectly safe,” Dorothea countered, not believing any harm could possibly befall her. This was a private party, given by the Earl of Wessex. Only invited guests would dare to enter his garden.

Mr. Pengrove scuffed the toe of his shoe against the gravel path. “I really must insist, Miss Ellingham. Lord Dardington would have my head on a platter if anything happened to you. I am certain he would not approve of your being here alone.”

“Ah, so you believe he would be happier if he discovered us here together?”

“Oh, gracious. We should leave at once!”

Dorothea opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of the idea. Mr. Pengrove’s lips were set in a mulish frown. He was agitated, nervous, glancing over his shoulder repeatedly, almost as if he expected the marquess to jump out from behind the thick hedgerow and demand to know what they were doing.

She caught Mr. Pengrove’s eye and gave him a hard stare. He sent her a fleeting look of apology, yet his stiff posture let her know he would not quickly abandon his position.