Henrietta had already started to turn away by the time he said it. Miss Carter. Her face froze for half a second as she tried to make sense of this. Did he really care so little that he'd forgotten her name mere minutes after she'd introduced herself to him (in quite a remarkably bold fashion, so that it ought to have been memorable) or was he doing this purposefully to antagonize her? She was inclined to think the latter — he had not seemed during their brief conversation to be an imbecile, and she had difficulty believing anyone but an imbecile could forget a name so quickly after learning it, particularly when he didn't even have the disadvantage of being introduced to a dozen people in the meantime as she had during the receiving line at the beginning of the evening. She'd forgotten a few names (alright, fine, most of the names), but not within the span of two minutes. So he must have been doing it on purpose, which might mean she'd irritated him enough that he was trying to have the last word. That was a little gratifying, if it was true — but on the other hand, maybe this was just how he was, and he hadn't been fazed by anything she'd said at all.
She wanted to butcher his name in response, as if to say you don't intimidate me, you boar, but there was one obvious problem with that: she didn't know his name. She'd started the conversation with hers, and he'd never returned the introduction. And he was leaving now, anyway, so she didn't have much time to think up a response. She let out a huff of frustration, but came up with nothing to say, and then he was half a step away and it would have seemed foolish and desperate to try and say anything, anyway, which was the last thing she wanted. He may have had the parting shot this time — whoever he was — but this final slight had ensured that he would not go forgotten after tonight was through. If he was one of the gentlemen considered a staple of society she would see him again this Season, and she would find some way to break through that superior facade of his, if it was the last thing she did.
She wanted to butcher his name in response, as if to say you don't intimidate me, you boar, but there was one obvious problem with that: she didn't know his name. She'd started the conversation with hers, and he'd never returned the introduction. And he was leaving now, anyway, so she didn't have much time to think up a response. She let out a huff of frustration, but came up with nothing to say, and then he was half a step away and it would have seemed foolish and desperate to try and say anything, anyway, which was the last thing she wanted. He may have had the parting shot this time — whoever he was — but this final slight had ensured that he would not go forgotten after tonight was through. If he was one of the gentlemen considered a staple of society she would see him again this Season, and she would find some way to break through that superior facade of his, if it was the last thing she did.
