Chapter Seven
“Iam glad we are staying in town tonight,” Delia said, lying in a guest room in one of the semicircular sections of Bath’s Circus, in Lady Osbourne’s townhouse. Divested of her gown, her hair now loose upon the pillow, she was already in bed.
Thankfully, Delia had felt better immediately after casting up onto the trousers and shoes of the Master of Ceremonies. Being a professional, whose job was to tend to the guests of the Upper Assembly Rooms, the man took it in stride and escorted her to a carriage that whisked her and Frances away.
Raising the damp cloth from her brow, Delia peeked to see if her cousin was still there.
Frances was gazing out the window at people strolling the wide avenue.
“That was very bad of you,” came her words finally. “How will you get a husband if you become so tied in knots when attending a ball? I met my Richard at a ball, you know.”
“I know. But you always loved to be surrounded by people. Anyway, I made a mistake and embarrassed myself. Not for the first time, nor probably the last.”
“I suppose. Besides, there are more events coming up,” Frances said, turning from the window. “You still have a chance to make a match if you can manage not to be ill.”
“I can make a match when I’m back in London,” Delia pointed out. It wasn’t as though this house party was her last or only chance. “Maybe I should wait another year.”
Frances sent her a pitying look. Then she shrugged. “Shall we see what food Lady Osbourne’s kitchen staff can make?”
“I fancy toasted bread with cheese,” Delia said.
Now that she didn’t have to be trussed up and shown off, her stomach was grumbling. Unfortunately, her head was starting to ache, too. Talking was making it worse. She feared her stomach would begin to churn again.
“Do you think they have any megrim powders?”
“This is Bath,” Frances reminded her. “There are doctors and cures here for everything. But I suspect the cook has some valerian tea that will put you right.”
Much later, after a light meal and two cups of valerian tea, Delia couldn’t keep her eyes open. Frances climbed into bed beside her, and Delia went to sleep recalling her single dance with Lord Perish. Dancing with him had been heavenly.
Thus, considering her last ball in London when she’d hidden behind a curtain the entire night, this evening had been a grand success.
THE NEXT MORNING, RUPERTwasn’t sure whether to wait for the ladies to return from town or go into Bath and call upon Lady Delia to determine her state of well-being.
What a mutton-head!He ought never to have given her his flask without knowing how she took to strong spirits. But how could he have known she hadn’t eaten?
Regardless, he hoped she was faring well after her disastrous exit from the assembly rooms. The expression on the Master of Ceremonies’ face had been priceless. Rupert could almost laugh now. The man’s boots — polished to such a shine one could see one’s face in them — were instantly ruined.
If only others hadn’t born witness, people who might not see the humor, people who might start rumors, saying anything that came into their heads.
Luckily, before he had made a decision, the parade of carriages returned with Lady Osbourne in the lead and her female guests with their chaperones following. While he could hardly approach Lady Delia directly and single her out, he could see for himself that the color had returned to her cheeks.
What’s more, within minutes, they were short one female guest. Lady Elizabeth’s maid packed her mistress’s trunk, and they left directly. Naturally, the lady was the talk of the afternoon. Rupert felt a little guilty before discovering his had not been the only complaint against the young woman. She’d been sent home to learn better table manners.
Banished as unmatchable!He wondered who might be next.
Rupert nearly asked Lady Delia if she wanted to ride out with him but decided to give her a day to fully recover. Disappointingly, he was paired with another lady at dinner, who, while well-mannered, was dull and humorless.
Thus, upon entering the drawing room for entertainment, he made sure to sit beside the plant lady. Lady Delia looked at him with a welcoming smile, and soon, they were engaged in a game of Wit. With all the couples using the same list of words to end each sentence, they created rhymes as a team of two.
They didn’t win, but the pleasure was in putting their heads close and coming up with something amusing.
“How is your talk on flora coming along?” he asked while they were enjoying a glass of syllabub afterward.
“I am loath to speak before a group. I would rather bite off my own tongue,” Lady Delia told him plainly. “I am hopeful Lady Osbourne will forget she asked me or forgive me if I bow out.”
He felt sorry for her reticence, thinking it a burden to be thus afflicted.
“I would very much like to hear what you have to say.”
