“I say, frightfully sorry!” her unseen assailant and rescuer was babbling. “Deuced ungentlemanly of me — ought to have been watching where I was going.”

Arabella’s bonnet had been knocked askew in the fracas. She was above the average height, but this man was even taller. With her bonnet brim in the way, all she could see was a stretch of brightly patterned waistcoat, a masterpiece of fine fabric and poor taste.

Everyone knew about Turnip Fitzhugh’s waistcoats.

Mr. Fitzhugh bent earnestly over her. “Frightfully sorry and all that. I do beg your pardon, Miss...”

He paused expectantly, looking down at her, waiting for her to complete the sentence for him, his blue eyes as guileless as a child’s. And as devoid of recognition.

“Dempsey. Miss Arabella Dempsey. We’ve met before. In fact, we have danced together, Mr. Fitzhugh. Several times.”

“Oh.” His broad brow furrowed and an expression of consternation crossed his face. “Oh. I say. I am sorry.”

“Why?” She had never thought she could be so bold, but it just came out. “I don’t recall stepping on your feet. You ought to have emerged from the experience unscathed.”

In fact, she was quite a good dancer. But did anyone ever notice? No. If she looked like Mary Alsworthy or had five thousand pounds a year like Deirdre Fairfax, they’d all be praising her for being as light on her feet as thistledown, but she could float like a feather for all any of them cared, or sink like lead. At that rate, she ought to have stomped on a few toes. At least that would have been one way to leave an impression.

“Wouldn’t want you to think... I never meant to imply... That is to say, what I meant was that I’m not much of a dab hand at names, you see. Or faces. Or dates.”

Arabella smiled determinedly at Mr. Fitzhugh, and if the smile was rather grim around the edges, hopefully he wouldn’t notice. “It is quite all right, Mr. Fitzhugh. You’re certainly not the first to have forgotten my name. Or the date of the Norman Conquest,” she added, in an attempt to inject a bit of levity.