“No,” he said, stretching that single syllable into two. “All you’ll do is get distracted and have her spun around so that neither of you make it to the dining room.”
Like she were still a young imp and not a young woman nearing her debut, Andromena stuck her tongue out.
The twins began to fight.
The eldest McQuoid-Smith ladies sought to quiet the quarreling younger siblings. Their husbands sat wisely silent as it all played out.
Things were spiraling.
Arran collected his brandy snifter and took a drink. They could quarrel all they wished about how fit Arran was—or, more accurately, was not—to squire Lucy about. The fact remained unchanged.
He’d be the one escorting Miss LeBeau. In fact, wherever she was, that was where he’d be.
He’d occupy the guest chambers across from hers.
And when he wasn’t with her, there’d be a servant positioned in his stead.
He’d let his guard down once. Never again.
Arran downed the remainder of his spirits in a quick swallow. The lingering notes of vanilla and orange and warm spice did nothing to soothe him.
No more.
“…she’s already declined to join…” Dallin’s wife and viscountess, Alexandra, reminded the family. “Perhaps it would be best to allow her a reprieve, given the day’s events…”
“She must come!” Cassia cried out, echoing her sisters and cousins.
No one paid Alexandra any heed.
Not because they disliked her; on the contrary, she was well adored.
But every last person present—aside from the spouses who’d married into the McQuoids—was determined to find out everything they could about Lucy.
Arran flexed his jaw.
Granted, their reasons differed vastly from Arran’s reasons for learning everything about the sweetheart Campbell had not once mentioned.
“Harold, will you not say something, Lord Abington?” the countess asked, exasperated.
From his seat at the fireside, reading, the earl picked his head up long enough to answer. “Listen to your mother.”
The McQuoid-Smith children collectively laughed.
“About Arran collecting Miss LeBeau for dinner, Harold,” the countess nearly shouted.
Sensing very real danger, Arran’s father lowered his newspaper to chest level. “Yes, yes, Arran is a fine choice to fetch the girl. Arran, off you go.”
And correctly anticipating pushback, the countess looked at Arran. “You heard your father, Arran. Collect Miss LeBeau.”
The McQuoid-Smith clan raised their voices in an exasperated chorus: “Lucy!” “Her name is Lucy!”
Arran pushed away from the mantel.
Fleur darted forward. “Uh-uh!” she cried, blocking his path. “You are not allowed to go up there like that.”
He tamped down impatience. “Like what?”
“Like…” Fleur gestured up and down his person before settling a pointed finger at his face. “This. All brooding and surly and angry.”
