Page 2

Her mouth quivered again at the image of the prestigious guests in attendance laid out flat by flying buttons.

Her mirth, however, was short-lived.

The Earl of Monteith, and her host for this evening, had found her. Again. The nobleman was persistent, if nothing else. No amount of politely discouraging the middling-aged man’s attentions deterred him from his pointed pursuit of her since her family had arrived in Edinburgh.

Tattle had it, he was in the market for a countess, and apparently, he’d set his bleary, dumpling-eyed sights on her. Bethea had done nothing to encourage his interest, and the more she attempted to put him off, the more determined he had become to seek her out. Like a great perspiring and smelly hound on the scent.

If he hadn’t already, she truly feared Montieth meant to ask Keane for her hand.

God save her from such a horrific fate.

A shudder rippled up her spine, spreading out in prickly waves across her shoulders and tingling her scalp. The very notion made the small midday meal she’d consumed threaten to reappear.

Swallowing, Bethea pressed a hand to her middle, willing the queasiness roiling there to abate.

Keane wouldn’t betroth her without telling her.

She had no doubt of that, and Marjorie well knew Bethea and Branwen desired a love-match. A widowed Englishwoman, Marjorie had become the older sister Bethea had never had, and both she and Branwen had confided their dreams and fears to her.

A curious, rather austere, lady caught her peeping around the column, and Bethea couldn’t resist a mischievous little finger wave. When the woman promptly elevated her reedy nose and turned her back in a direct snub, Bethea chuckled. Only since arriving in Edinburgh and experiencing the—ah—flamboyant and—ah—interesting persons of elevated station, had this peculiar bend toward precociousness overcome her.

Standing on her toes again, Bethea desperately searched the room for Branwen, Keane, or Marjorie. She didn’t know anyone else well enough to approach them. If only that had been Camden Kennedy. In truth, she shouldn’t be hiding here alone. There were those only too eager to cast aspersions on something as innocent as an unchaperoned lass.

And I was so eager to experience High Society.

Bethea huffed a rude noise beneath her breath, not daring to voice the unladylike oath she wasn’t even supposed to know, let alone utter.

Bent on a hasty retreat, she gathered the iridescent silver and lavender of her satin gown in her gloved hands. She might very well heave decorum aside and cause a scandal, by hiking her skirts to her knees and sprinting across the room. Anything to avoid Montieth.

How she wished she was back at Trentwick Castle in the Highlands, right now. Boredom was, indeed, preferable to hiding at every event and dreading an unwanted proposal.

She cast another desperate glance about the ballroom.

Praise the heavens.

There Marjorie was. Her fiery red tresses were a much welcome, glowing beacon.

“Miss Glanville,” the earl puffed breathlessly, from several paces away.

Och, hell in a basket.

Determined to avoid a dance as unpleasant as the one she’d suffered through at the Cavendishs’ two nights ago, Bethea pretended not to hear him. His fetid scent had compelled her to hold her breath each time the reel’s steps forced them together. Without glancing behind her, she dove into the throng, winding her way through the guests.

Several people smiled or inclined their heads—two or three gentlemen quite lecherously—but mindful of Marjorie’s instruction, Bethea maintained an air of genial indifference as she swiftly wove through the colorful tapestry of people. The instinct to run, to put as much distance as possible between herself and the Earl of Montieth, thrummed through her.

Nevertheless, she kept her pace brisk, yet modulated.

“At all times present yourselves as polite and approachable, but not eager or forward,” Marjorie had counseled her and Branwen when Keane had, at last, conceded to present them in Edinburgh. “A young lady must act agreeable without seeming overly-friendly toward any gentlemen. A very fine line exists between politesse and what some consider fast or impudent behavior,” Marjorie had solemnly advised.

No doubt, naughtily waving at a busybody fell into the latter category.

So many ridiculous rules to observe, half of which, Marjorie and Keane dolefully acknowledged, changed on a whim.

Be reserved, but not austere.

Smile, but not coyly.

Exemplify graciousness, but do not encourage or tolerate scandalous behavior.