Georgie cocked her head and stared intently at the red-haired girl. Mention of her mother? Antics? Embarrassment? Oh, yes, this young woman had to be the offspring of none other than Lady Viva Montfort, the widowed Viscountess Montague. She was infamous for her scandalous foibles. She caused a scene everywhere she went.
“She does seem…quite spirited,” Georgie finally said, her voice tinged with sympathy.
“She’s a menace,” Miss Montfort said flatly. “And she’s determined to drag me down with her.” She straightened suddenly, realizing she hadn’t even introduced herself. “I’m Poppy, by the by. Poppy Montfort. Daughter of the Viscountess of Chaos, I mean Montague. And you are?”
Georgie bit her lip. “Georgiana Chadwick.”
“Lady Georgiana, are you not?” the blond girl added.
Georgie tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “Yes, but at the moment I’d give my eyeteeth to sink into obscurity.”
“I’m Beatrix Winslow,” the blonde continued after a beat. “Lady Beatrix, if you prefer.”
Oh, yes. How did she not recognize her before? Of course the beautiful blond young lady was Beatrix Winslow, the daughter of the powerful Duke of Winston. The diamond of the Season. The diamond of every Season. She’d received more marriage offers than one could count, yet she curiously remained unattached. What was she doing in here?
Poppy nodded. “Lovely. Now that we’re all properly acquainted, at least tell me I’m not the only one in disgrace tonight. You”—she gestured to Georgiana—“look as if you’ve just escaped a firing squad. And you”—she waved at Beatrix—“are far too rich and beautiful to be hiding in here.” She gave both of them a narrowed-eyed stare. “What are you two hiding from?”
Both Georgie and Beatrix snapped their heads to stare at her.
Georgie was on the verge of making something up. Something simple. Something that didn’t beg questions. But something else told her that she could speak the truth in front of these young ladies, both of them. “I’m hiding from my fiancé,” she admitted in a whisper. “The Marquess of Henderville.” Ooh, that felt better than she’d expected.
Beatrix gasped. Then she promptly clapped a gloved hand over her mouth and straightened her shoulders, as if trying to regain her equilibrium after having displayed a less than ladylike reaction to what must have been shocking news. “Pardon me, but did you say…the Marquess of Henderville?”
Georgie nodded. “Yes.”
“Oh,” Poppy said, frowning. “That’s rather…unfortunate.”
“It is,” Georgie agreed. “Quite unfortunate.” She swallowed hard. “He’s…old. And not in the distinguished way. More in the ‘has a collection of questionable canes and an unsettling fondness for rubbing my elbow’ sort of way.”
Beatrix made a sound suspiciously like a strangled moan but covered it with a cough. “I am sorry,” she murmured.
“And you?” Georgie countered, leveling her gaze at Beatrix. “What brings you to the retiring room?”
Beatrix’s chin lifted another imperious inch. “Lord Nicholas Archer.”
This time, Georgie frowned. “You’re hiding from him?”
“You could say that.” Beatrix shrugged one shoulder.
Poppy perked up, her own troubles seemingly forgotten for the moment. “Why? He’s quite…handsome.”
“And he knows it,” Beatrix snapped, rolling her eyes. “He’s also a libertine, a scoundrel, and the most infuriating man alive. My father insists on throwing us together at every opportunity, convinced it’s a brilliant match. Never mind that our politics are diametrically opposed, and I’d sooner marry a goat. Honestly, a satyr at least.”
“Ah,” Georgie said delicately. “Well. That does sound…unpleasant. Marrying a goat, I mean. Or a satyr. One might expect they have similar scents.” Though she secretly thought she’d expire from glee if her father had matched her with the young, handsome Nicholas Archer, Marquess of Vanover, instead of the old, crusty Marquess of Henderville.
“I’m entirely serious,” Beatrix muttered. “Nicholas Archer may not be an old man, but he is an insufferable one, I assure you.”
“Well,” Poppy interjected, “at least neither of you has a mother who’s managed to upstage the orchestra, the refreshments, and Lady Cranberry all in the span of half an hour. I shall die a wallflower, trying to live down my mother’s scandalous reputation.”
All three fell silent, the air heavy with their collective grievances. Then, almost simultaneously, they began to laugh. Softly at first, then with growing amusement, their laughter spilling into the quiet room.
It was Georgie who finally broke the mirth with a sigh. “We are quite the pathetic lot, aren’t we?”
“I prefer to think of us as resourceful,” Beatrix countered.
“Resourceful?” Poppy repeated with a faint smile.
“Yes,” Beatrix insisted. “We’ve each found the one quiet place in this entire house where no one dares follow.”
