Nora clamped her teeth together. The back of her neck flamed with heat at the question.
Whoever this stranger was, she’d somehow known at a glance that Nora was no young lady in Town for her come-out, but rather some poor servant playing at dress-up.
Her cheeks burned. These were the richest clothes she’d ever worn. But though they might make her feel a princess, her betters still knew her for a pauper. Small wonder most of them ignored her.
Lady Roundtree waved a gloved hand in Nora’s direction. “Winfield is my companion.”
“Oh, thank heavens.” The bejeweled lady gave a delicate shiver. “I dreaded to think how any debutante intended to find a match with hair that…red. The pink gown makes the garish hue clash all the more.”
Nora sucked in a deep breath. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The Society lady hadn’t mistaken her for a servant, after all. She’d simply recoiled at Nora’s repulsive appearance. Apparently her wild red mane was so monstrously offensive, no fine gentleman could ever possibly condescend to withstand the presence of such an eyesore.
Thank God Nora would soon be going home, where hardworking, country-born men had better things to do than rate women’s worth based on the color of their hair.
“Petty insults do not behoove a future countess,” Lady Pettibone informed her companion coldly.
The fine lady’s porcelain face blushed just as red as the rubies encrusted in her gown.
Or as red as Nora’s hair.
“And you.” Lady Pettibone turned her sharp gaze toward Nora. “We have discussed proper comportment. Your first position will be your last if you fail the simple task of minding your silence unless spoken to.”
Nora gulped and nodded. She held this post because Lady Pettibone herself had ordered the baroness to acquire a companion. Nora could not afford to lose it by jumping to the defense of a small, innocent, extremely clean puppy.
Probably cleaner than the heavily powdered future countess sweating to death under the weight of so much satin and jewels.
“And I would begyou,” Lady Roundtree replied with obvious nervousness, “not to publicly reprimand my employees.”
“Then do so yourself.” Lady Pettibone swung her imperious gaze toward Nora. “Well? Let’s see it, then. Or is the mutt confined in that basket because it has rabies?”
Nora startled into action, flipping both wicker lids wide and tilting the basket toward Lady Pettibone’s carriage.
With a rebel yip, Captain Pugboat immediately leapt into the air, front paws reaching toward the ornate carriage, nails first.
Lady Pettibone’s eyes widened in surprise.
Lady Roundtree buried her face in her hands.
The bejeweled countess let out a bloodcurdling scream as if the hounds of hell had been unleashed upon them all.
Nora released the basket and snatched the flying puppy from the air before his little paws could reach the forbidden coach.
Saved.
She clutched Captain Pugboat to her chest in victory.
The tumbling wicker basket made contact with Lady Roundtree’s broken leg.
The baroness’s resulting shriek of agony drowned out every other sound in the entire park.
Nora yanked the basket away, trapped Captain Pugboat inside, and knelt in abject horror on the carriage floor beside Lady Roundtree’s trembling, broken limb.
Lady Pettibone motioned to her driver. “I’ll leave you to your reprimanding.”
The coach shot away as if fleeing a losing battlefield.
“I’m so sorry,” Nora babbled, unable to wait until directly addressed before apologizing profusely to her wounded patroness. “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing.” Lady Roundtree’s elegant shoulders slumped back against her satin squab in clear relief. “Sit, sit. You didn’t harm me. I just wanted them to go away.”
