“Am I?” he drawled.
“You odious man. How dare you frighten me like that?” She stepped back out into the hall. “Rory, drag that man to his bed, right this minute.” She spun around and was gone as quickly as she appeared.
“The plot thickens,” Kimpton said with a definite smirk.
Harlowe chose not to respond. “Come, Rory. We must do as the lady says. Otherwise, she is liable to punish me with a week’s worth of saltless gruel.”
Eight
T
here you are. You’re late.” Lady Ingleby’s mango colored gown was blinding under the myriad candles lighting the Oxfords’ ballroom.
“How can I be late, Mother? I arrived the same time as the Kimptons. I rode with them.” Maeve scanned the ballroom for Ginny but didn’t see her anywhere.
“Who did your hair? Certainly not Parson.”
“No. Parson was busy lowering the hem on this gown you insisted she bring instead of the one I requested.” Maeve resisted tugging at the squared neckline. “Mercy, if I breathe wrong, I’ll spill out of the thing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That burgundy is lovely on you. Madam Chaput assured me your unsightly hair would not clash. Though I’m surprised, I feel I must agree. That gown will go far in attracting the Duke of Oxford’s attention.” Her mother snapped her fan. “I’ve secured both waltzes for you. The duke of course, and for the supper dance, the Marquis of Dorset.”
“I will not dance with that dandy—”
“You can and you will. Shush. Here comes Oxford.”
“Lady Alymer. How nice to see you’ve arrived. I fear your mother worried you would not make it in time for our dance.” The Duke of Oxford was a portly man whose head came to her chin. His eyes fastened to her cleavage.
She resisted the impulse to tell him her eyes were located slightly higher. She dipped into a low curtsey. “Your grace.”
His long pointed nose looked out of place in the flaccid jowls, as if someone had molded one out of clay and stuck it in the middle of his face. Even the shade did not blend with the rest of the magenta undertone of his face.
“I trust your daughter had a pleasant birthday today,” Maeve said.
His face lit up. “Yes. Yes. Took her to Gunther’s for ices and a ride in the park.” He inclined his head to the parquet floor where a country dance was in play. “She is dancing with Welton. The whelp hasn’t a chance in hel—” He pulled himself up at her mother’s gasp. “Hades of obtaining her hand.”
And the duke hadn’t a chance in hell for hers, Maeve vowed. He was nothing but a pretentious blowhard.
“I hear you’re staying with Lord and Lady Kimpton these days,” he said.
“Yes. Lorelei has her hands full with her brother now home and his heir.”
Oxford grunted. “That’s what servants are for.”
“Perhaps,” she returned. “But a change of scenery is nice for me as well, your grace.” Maeve caught sight of Ginny standing next to Lorelei and grasped the opportunity. “Oh, please excuse me, your grace, Mother. I see Lady Brockway. I look forward to our dance, sir.”
He clicked his heels together, bowing his head over her gloved hand. Her mother stood behind him, a foot taller, and lips clamped.
Maeve couldn’t bring herself to care. She would never marry that man. She’d take her own bottle of laudanum first.
“Don’t tell me,” Lorelei said. “Lady Ingleby is vying for Oxford on your behalf.”
“I’m sure the ballroom is all abuzz with the notion.”
“Dear heavens,” Ginny said. “You aren’t desperate for funds, are you?”
“Certainly not. In fact, I’ve made the decision to find my own lodgings. Perhaps Kimpton or Brockway could assist me in finding something suitable,” she said. “I have decided I will not return to Ingleby House.”
“That should go over well,” Ginny said.
