“But you can’t go out there!” Her mother’s strong hand once again grasped Ellie by the wrist. “You could get... sun fatigue.”
“I’ll be fine, Mama. I won’t forget my parasol.” Ellie tugged her wrist free and strode toward the door, then paused as she recollected an earlier concern. “Speaking of remembering things... All the furor over birthdays made me realize I can’t precisely recall my own age. I know this sounds ridiculous, but... How old am I, again?” She laughed lightly to cover her embarrassment.
Mama wandered away, as if just now noticing the small landscapes dotting the walls. “You’ll be two-and-twenty,” she answered distractedly. “The same as your friend. Don’t ask such silly questions.”
Frowning, Ellie watched her mother straighten the already straight frames, then turned and left the chamber before another argument erupted.
But as she walked to join the others, Ellie couldn’t shake the suspicion that her eternally self-controlled mother had been unaccountably fidgety. It was unsettling to think Mama might have been hiding something. Ellie couldn’t possibly imagine what there could be to lie about. Except for the niggling suspicion that Ellie had already turned two-and-twenty. Last year.
Before Ellie could consider the topic further, Miss Breckenridge spied her approaching and motioned her over to the small crowd. The marble antechamber smelt strongly of soaps and colognes. Lord Lovenip was nowhere in sight.
“I hope you’re hungry.” Miss Breckenridge fairly skipped across the entranceway to the front doors. “Cook has outdone herself!”
The butler flung open the doors. A passel of footmen bearing large baskets lined the pathway curving down the hillside. Beaming, Miss Breckenridge stepped across the threshold to lead the way, her guests filing out behind her.
Bringing up the rear, Ellie overheard one gentleman murmur to another, “Got yours?”
“It’s the only method of survival,” his companion replied with an irreverent grin. “Cheers!”
Laughing and jostling, they removed metal flasks from their waistcoats, clinked them together, then took turns downing healthy swigs.
Spirits of some kind, no doubt, but whatever it was had to be better than warm ratafia. After the events of this morning, Ellie couldn’t help but wish they’d offer some to her, too.
In unison, the two men swiveled to face her, flasks in hand. “Fancy a nip?”
Surprised at their apparent ability to read her mind, Ellie was startled into accepting one of the flasks. The gentlemen watched her vacantly. But they were now the only three left dawdling in the house. She might as well take a courtesy sip and have done, so they could catch up with the others.
Having successfully rationalized astoundingly unladylike behavior, Ellie gingerly tipped the flask just enough to taste its contents. Liquid fire scalded her throat and scorched her nostrils. Flask outstretched, she doubled over, coughing. Whatever it was, it was worse than ratafia.
She hastened from the two gentlemen lest they offer her more spirits, only to freeze on the front steps when the sun’s rays hit her full on. The conversation with her mother had discomfited her so much that she’d forgotten her parasol after all. She’d been a child the last time she’d strolled in the sun unprotected, and all she could remember of that outing was ending up in bed for a week.
But she was older now. Stronger. Besides, if she went back for a parasol, she’d lose the group completely and, like as not, end up arguing with her mother again.
Sighing, she curved a hand over her eyes to shield them from the blinding glare and hurried across the lawn.
Whether as a consequence of the sun’s heat or the effects of the devil’s own whisky, she was dizzy and thickheaded by the time she rejoined the group. Not only were the guests’ individual scents overpowering to Ellie’s nose, she fancied she could hear their breaths, their heartbeats, and was oddly distracted by every glimpse of a bare throat or ungloved wrist. It seemed all the ladies had been hoping for Mr. Macane’s accompaniment.
A steadying arm circled about Ellie’s midsection. Who...? Ah. Miss Breckenridge.
“Are you all right?” Her client’s brow knit, her voice low with concern. “You don’t look at all the thing.”
“All your fault,” Ellie managed uncharitably. “Can’t stop thinking about vamp?—”
“Shhh.” Miss Breckenridge spun her away from the others. “Your breath smells like spirits.” She clapped a hand to her forehead as if she, too, had a devil of a megrim. “Never say my brothers offered you drinks from their flasks.”
Ellie blinked slowly. “Those were your brothers?”
“Of course those audacious pups are my brothers—hence their humiliating stories today at breakfast. Oh! Of course. You didn’t come down.” Miss Breckenridge tsked. “You should know better than to imbibe spirits on an empty stomach, Miss Ramsay, and you oughtn’t sample anything my brothers offer, no matter how full your stomach. Why don’t you return to your chamber and lie down? Ring Cook for some soup. It’s miraculous, I promise.”
“All right,” Ellie mumbled, disappointed to be returning indoors mere minutes into the day’s adventure but seeing no other recourse. With her head spinning so, she would never manage a long hike in the sun.
“You do look deathly pale.” Miss Breckenridge placed her hand on Ellie’s arm. “I shall have to accompany you.”
“No, no, it’s your birthday.” Embarrassment flooded Ellie’s cheeks. “I’ll be fine in time for dinner; don’t you worry.”
Miss Breckenridge’s pursed lips exposed her skepticism, but already her name was being called by various members of the party. “I’ll have my brothers take you. They did this; the least they can do is escort you inside.”
“I’m fine,” Ellie lied, willing her spine to steady. The last thing she wanted was more witnesses to this humiliation. “Carry on without me.”
