Again, Mars laughed. He always took everything easily. It was one of the reasons Bran envied him. The earl rarely overthought a thing. “If you knew me better, you might not.”
“Will His Grace be here this evening?” Miss Nelson was so bold to ask.
To Bran’s surprise, Lucy, who usually disparaged the local girls, smiled indulgently. “Yes, he should be here shortly.”
A becoming pink rose in Miss Nelson’s cheeks as if in anticipation of seeing Winderton, and Mars said, “I fear I shall be supplanted.”
“As you should be, my lord,” a new voice chimed in. Mrs. Warbler joined their group. She was known for the bad wig she wore. It was a vivid shade of red and piled high on her head. Bran half expected her to sport a patch. She had at her elbow a ruddy-faced lad of perhaps twenty years or so. Bran did not recognize him. The lad had a pronounced Adam’s apple and could have used at least a stone more in weight.
“Miss Nelson,” Mrs. Warbler said, “you promised Mr. Fitzsimmons a dance, did you not?”
For a second, guilt crossed Miss Nelson’s face as if she had been avoiding Mr. Fitzsimmons, however she recovered nicely. With a pretty smile, she said, “I’ve been looking for you. Shall we go for this next set?”
The awkward young man offered his arm and made a tongue-tied expression of agreement.
Miss Nelson shot a regretful look at Mars from under her dark lashes before taking the proffered arm. The couple moved to find their places for the next dance set.
“I wager he doesn’t say two words to her the whole dance,” Mrs. Warbler said to Lucy.
“Of course he won’t,” Lucy replied. “Isn’t he related to Vida Fitzsimmons?” Vida was a spinster of indeterminate age and was always included in the pack of matrons.
“Her cousin from Newcastle.”
“Then it is best he doesn’t speak,” Lucy answered, opening her fan and lazily waving it past her lips as if to hide her tart comment.
Mars gave a mock wince. “I fear what you say about me when my back is turned.”
“That you should be married,” Mrs. Warbler snapped. “Come, Lucy, we are all gathered in our corner. Excuse us, gentlemen.” The matrons didn’t wait for acknowledgement but made their way over to where others of their party had gathered in a grouping of chairs and tables. Their watchful eyes scanned the present company. There would be many tart comments this evening.
“Punch?” Mars asked.
“Have you tried it yet?”
“Weak. However, I hear Squire Nelson is one of many with a flask who is planning to give it some bite. Meanwhile, the Reverend Summerall keeps promising to water it down.”
“Nothing changes around here, does it?” Bran observed. This same conversation could have taken place before he’d left for India years ago. And while London seemed to change weekly, every time Bran returned home, he was struck by how predictable Maidenshop was.
“Very little,” his friend answered. “That is what makes it perfect. We know exactly what to expect.”
As they started for the crowded punch table, they saw Ned standing attendance next to Clarissa Taylor and made their way over to him. If ever a couple appeared uncomfortable, this one did. They stood side by side like strangers waiting for a stage to arrive.
In truth, Clarissa was a lovely, biddable woman. Her hair was the color of the richest honey and her eyes were cat shaped and green, the sort of eyes that lingered in a man’s mind. If she’d had any fortune at all, she would have been snapped up. Unfortunately, her dubious parentage, her lack of dowry, and her studious nature kept her on the shelf.
Bran didn’t think Thurlowe was making a bad match, just an uninteresting one. Then again, he’d just realized he’d spent a good chunk of his life moping over Kate. Who was the greater fool?
Ned and Miss Taylor stood with her guardians, Squire Nelson and his wife. There was another couple with them who were introduced as Mrs. Nelson’s sister and brother-in-law from Surry.
Ned acted relieved to see Mars and Bran. Miss Taylor greeted Bran warmly, yet gave the most civil acknowledgement to Mars, who answered in kind. It was well-known she considered him a wastrel and that he thought her a bore.
Meanwhile, the squire’s wife, who delighted in Mars and his rakish ways, would have adored for him to pay court to one of her four daughters. She inquired saucily if they had their eye on any of the ladies. “Such as the one you just danced with, my lord?” She meant her daughter.
Mars mumbled something about how well Miss Nelson presented herself and that pleased her mother. “She’d make an excellent countess,” she was so bold to say.
“Martha,” the squire warned with a frown of embarrassment.
“She would,” his wife protested undeterred. “And what of you, Mr. Balfour? I know your sister would be pleased to see you married.”
True. Lucy dropped many hints. “Unfortunately, I’m not ready to give up my membership in the Logical Men’s Society.”
