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He’d broken his wrist in January and was still recovering his strength.
Branwen vigorously shook her head. “Nae, there must be another way. I dinna want more unkind things said about Lord Hurstwood, and I have nae desire to be the object of the rumormongers’ attention.”
Of course, she’d consider Lord Hurstwood’s feelings.
A faint frown drew her fine eyebrows together. “There are vipers out there.” She canted her head toward the closed door. “Marjorie warned us about their cruelty, but I didna understand just how nasty people can be.”
She was absolutely right.
Through those elaborate panels mingled pretentious popinjays, and painted and perfumed ladies whose shrewd-eyed gazes lit with excitement at the merest hint of scandal, impropriety, or gossip. They thrived on others’ mistakes and calamities as if misfortune somehow elevated their standing.
“I’ll see if there’s an inconspicuous way to depart,” Bethea said.
Surely a house this size must have a dozen exterior exits. Bethea considered the door on the other side of the room and angled her head in that direction.
“Perhaps through there.” She pointed at the door on the other side of the room. “I believe there’s a terrace or veranda on this side of the house.”
Earlier, she’d seen a porch of some sort through the tall glass doors on one end of the ballroom.
Her sister gave an unconvinced nod and puffed out her cheeks. “And I was so eager to experience High Society.”
As had Bethea been.
Branwen chuckled dryly and cocked an eyebrow in skepticism. “I must confess to havin’ regrets.”
“I had similar thoughts myself not even fifteen minutes ago,” Bethea admitted. “As I was dodgin’ the Earl of Montieth again.”
Screwing her mouth in distaste, Branwen said, “He really has become an obnoxious pest, hasna he?”
“Aye, and he asked Marjorie if he could call tomorrow.” Hugging herself, Bethea rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms. “He’s goin’ to ask for my hand. I ken he is. But, thank God, Marjorie has persuaded Keane that we should be allowed to choose our husbands.”
“She is a dear, and I’m verra glad Keane married her,” Branwen said, settling further back onto the couch.
“As am I,” Bethea agreed.
They’d taken to Marjorie, and she to them, as if they’d known each other their entire lives.
Bethea leaned down and bussed a kiss across her sister’s soft cheek. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with Marjorie and Keane, and we’ll get ye home and settled comfortably. I think it would be wise to have a physician examine yer feet, too.”
“Nae.” Branwen shook her head. “Let’s see how I am tomorrow. I truly believe my feet and toes are merely bruised.” She grinned and waggled her winged black eyebrows mischievously. “Just think. We have an excuse to stay in, read before the fire, or play games.”
“Good heavens! Is this the same sister who lamented we’d end up whiskery-chinned old tabbies with a collection of purrin’ cats durin’ the Hogmanay celebration?” Bethea teased as she crossed to the other door.
Her sentiments exactly matched Branwen’s.
Perhaps the quieter, more sedate life of the Highlands wasn’t so very disagreeable after all. An unexpected pang of homesickness fluttered behind her ribs, like a caged sparrow trying to escape.
Uncertain what she’d find on the other side, Bethea turned the key in the lock, and then tentatively lowered the handle and drew the panel open a couple of inches. Head cocked, she listened, and upon hearing nothing, boldly pulled the door wide, exposing what appeared to be an antechamber.
It was dark, except for the faint illumination filtering in from a single, tall terrace window and a wedge of light streaming in from another partially ajar door on the room’s far side.
Angling back to her sister, she gave a jaunty little wave. “I’ll return shortly. Dinna do anythin’ I wouldna do,” she quipped, gratified to hear Branwen laugh at the jest.
With that, Bethea slipped through the opening, closing the door behind her. Treading softly upon the thick carpet, lest someone occupy the other room, she considered the burning question that had plagued her these past ten minutes or so.
Why hadn’t Camden made his presence known to them this evening?
And why had he looked like he’d like to tear the Earl of Montieth limb from limb?
