Benedict opened his mouth to respond but clamped it shut. His whole body stiffened as he focused on something over her shoulder.
“Benedict, me lad. What a surprise to see ye here.” The heavy Scottish drawl was infused with sarcasm. She craned her neck to see who was speaking. The Scotsman was nearly a foot shorter than Benedict. His grey beard didn’t fully hide his sagging jowls or the yellow tinge to his face. His eyes were small and mean and firmly fixed on her husband.
Behind him stood two others, a short barrel of a man and the gangly lad who’d refused to speak with her earlier in the day. The scowl on his face was even more fierce than it had been at Benedict’s factory.What is his problem?
This was another reason ladies didn’t belong in a place like this. She took a fortifying breath. Men could sense unease.
Benedict stood, crossing the distance between his chair and hers, effectively blocking her view as he shook the Scot’s hand. “Alistair.” His tone was a warning if she’d ever heard one. He put a hand on her shoulder, preventing her from standing.
“Good to see ye, lad. Ye haven’t dropped by for a drink with us common folk in weeks.”
The stranger stepped past Benedict, taking the seat Benedict had just left. He spread his legs wide, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, fingers drumming, and turned his intent stare to her. It was full of dislike and derision.
“We’ve yet to be introduced, lass.” His tone was familiar—the derogatory drawl of a man who thought women vacant, vapid fripperies. A type of man that existed across all social classes, apparently.
It was a tone she was glad to hear because it told her exactly how she needed to respond. If he thought to intimidate her, he was grossly out of his depth.
She gave him the same long, judgmental perusal the impertinent barmaid had given her and then wrinkled her nose and turned away, as if he were as inconsequential as a bad smell.
The drumming of his fingertips ceased.
Behind her, Benedict gave her shoulder a light squeeze. “Lady Amelia, may I introduce Mr. Alastair McTavish. Alastair, Lady Amelia Asterly.”
The young boy snorted and crossed his arms. “Lady Asterly. Don’t that sound fancy.”
“It’s nice to see you again, Jeremy,” she said. Sometimes kindness was the most effective weapon.
His lips thinned, and he turned his face away, suddenly fascinated by a spider busily spinning its web in the rafters.
“I apologize,” Benedict said. “He’s generally better behaved than this.”
The boy’s ears turned crimson, and the look he threw in Benedict’s direction was furious.
“No need to apologize,” the third man said, clapping a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Jeremy’s just exercising his God-given right to converse when and with whom he chooses. With your permission, of course. Charles Tucker, at your service.” He gave a mocking bow.
“Charles Tucker? The same Charles Tucker whose gang threw rotten cabbages at Lord and Lady Darnmouth last Season as they left the theater? I thought you’d been arrested.”
He smiled. “I’m too quick for that, m’lady.”
Before Amelia could respond, Benedict took her elbow, firmly dragging her from the chair. “And on that note, we must take our leave.”
“Go back to yer love nest then. ’Twas a pleasure to meet ye, m’lady. Ye both look very happy. I guess your marriage cannae be the flaming disaster Benny said ’twas.”
Benedict’s hand gripped tighter on her elbow, but no tighter than the grip those words had on her heart. She wasn’t foolish enough to think he’d been thrilled at their marriage, but she also hadn’t expected that he’d shared his horror with men like this.
That he would discuss her in any way was humiliating. Her ears burned, and she ground her teeth to keep from lashing out.
“We’re leaving.” He was angry. She could hear it in his voice, but there was no way he could be angrier than she was.
Cassandra was sitting at the bottom of the stairs leaning against the banister when they got home, her hair in the ridiculous curls Amelia kept insisting she wear, a book in her lap. Her look of boredom transformed into excitement the moment she set eyes on the basket of shopping his wife gripped tightly. She jumped up and hop-skipped across the foyer to them.
“How was your day?” she asked Amelia. He had resigned himself to the fact that, for now at least, Amelia held his sister’s attention more than he did.
“It was fine, poppet. These are for you.” Amelia placed the bag of a thousand and one ribbons in Cassandra’s arms and turned to Tom, who had his arms out ready to take her coat. “I’m going upstairs. This will need to be cleaned.” Each word was short and clipped and perfectly moderate. She handed over her pelisse. “As will my dress and my shoes. Please send Daisy up to help me change.”
And without looking at him, she left.
“What did you do?” Cassandra hissed.
