“The ladies will go mad,” George said with a laugh when Malcolm had first emerged from behind the screen in the evening clothes.“They will be protesting that we’ve kept the most handsome Parkhorne brother from them.”
“Enough,” Malcolm had said gruffly, embarrassed, and hating himself for it.
But his brothers’ cheering of him had helped.They had even had a few nips of whiskey which, for a moment, had dulled his nerves.
Now, however, in the dainty drawing room itself, newly done over for the occasion, Malcolm found that he could not keep his hands from shaking.He actually felt a bit faint.
He had no choice, however, but to dutifully follow George across the drawing room and toward the lady he was supposed to occupy himself with delighting for the evening.
What a joke that was, he knew.
What was he supposed to entertain a lady from London with?She would expect wit and a familiarity with fashion.And he was only familiar with his almanac and crop rotation techniques.
A buzzing filled Malcolm’s ears.His throat went dry.
Dimly, he was aware that he and George had stopped in front of a sofa.
He was also vaguely aware that George was talking.
He realized, with horror, that he had no idea how to greet a lady.He knew how to greet his sisters and Mrs.Salisbury and the men who worked the farm and the people who lived around Parkhorne—but how did one greet a lady?Was there something he was supposed to know?He wasn’t sure why this greeting would differ from all others—but it must.Mustn’t it?
George had stopped speaking.The women on the sofa, whom he hadn’t even been able to take in, were staring up at him.
Clearly, George had introduced him to Miss Scarlett Perkins.
The only problem was that he had not been listening.And so he had no idea which of the women before himwasMiss Scarlett Perkins.
Three women sat on the sofa.
One was an elegant woman of about Mrs.Salisbury’s age.She must beMrs.Perkins.
And then there was a young lady before him who was—his throat constricted in pain.
She was extraordinarily beautiful.
Were all women in London this beautiful?
No, it couldn’t be, because the young lady next to her on the sofa, the one who must be her older sister, was nowhere near as comely.
This lady had auburn hair and skin that looked like fresh cream and a lush, abundant figure that had him thinking thoughts that he didn’t need experience in London society to know were unacceptable in this context.
Her pert, elegant nose sat above full lips that were parted in what appeared, to his eye, to be something like surprise.
Her fine, dark eyes, the color of hazelnuts, contained a lively intelligence.
Her cheeks were flushed the most becoming pink.
And she was looking at him as if he were a complete simpleton.
He needed to speak.
Given the extreme beauty of this lady, Malcolm reasoned that she must be Miss Tilly Perkins, the younger sister, the prize who had so captivated George and who was, by all accounts, to wed him.
He lurched forward, not towards the stunning beauty nearest to him, but towards her merely pretty sister by her side.
“Miss Perkins,” he said, bowing his head.And then, knowing he needed to acknowledge both of them, he nodded towards the beauty, saying, “Miss Matilda.”He turned his attention back towards the plainer sister, the beautiful one giving him a strange pain to look at.“It will be my pleasure to attend you into dinner this evening, Miss Perkins.”
He knew the moment after he spoke that he had done something wrong.He just had no notion of what.
