Page 54
What woman would put that millinery atrocity on her head?
Even as Ronan regarded the offense to the eye, the pair he’d held the door open for made a beeline for the travesty and began gushing over it.
Well, that answered that question.
He glanced to the window.
Unseasonably warm, the sun blazed outdoors today.
Dratted, annoying orb.
March, known for her heavy rain, heavier fog, and permeating dankness, had decided to cast off her shroud of gloom and burst forth under the guise of a late August afternoon.
Which was why he’d been cajoled into meeting his mother, sisters, and wards at the dressmaker's to escort them to Gunter’s. Rather, he’d received a note from his mother informing him that he was to do so at precisely half of two.
Evidently, she believed he’d neglected his wards this past week. Which, of course, was utter balderdash. A mere three days had passed since he’d escorted them to Hyde Park to feed the ducks and fly kites.
Couldn't a man take a day for himself for manly pursuits?
Weren’t there enough females around to keep the girls company?
Just last week, Mother had hosted a tea and there had been at least six girls near in age to Bellamy and Arabelle. He knew, for a fact, that they’d received three reciprocal invitations as a result.
Regardless, Arabelle and Bellamy had never tasted an ice, and today’s weather called for such an indulgence. He didn’t begrudge them the experience, one he’d enjoyed often as a child. What he did begrudge was having to climb inside an infernally hot coach.
Unless…
He perked up.
Perhaps Mother had thought to bring the landau. With the top lowered, that might be tolerable.
His enthusiasm evaporated just as rapidly.
Who was he kidding?
The women had parasols to help block the sun. He had a bloody black hat perched atop his head, acting as a heat magnet. The sun would beat down upon him—unrelenting and remorseless.
Gunter’s would be a bevy of activity in this weather too. Best to get on with it, for the brutal heat would only increase as the afternoon advanced. March had no business pretending to be a summer month, thereby throwing everything off-kilter.
Ronan strode forward, conscious of the eyes upon him.
The lone male, he stood out like a peacock among pigeons.
Several women turned to take his measure, including Mercy. A shadow of disquiet flashed across her face and then was gone.
Of course, she was here.
His mother wouldn’t dream of leaving Mercy home to do whatever governesses did when their charges were elsewhere.
What, exactly, did they do?
Nap? Read? Take a walk? Write a letter?
At once, Mercy turned a delightful shade of pink, almost an exact match to the bolt of fabric she held and to which Bellamy—still wearing mourning black—gazed longingly.
Mother insisted Bellamy and Arabelle might be permitted to wear a bit of color. Nothing too outrageous yet. A dark blue or violet. Assuredly not the pale petal pink Bellamy stared at with heart-wrenching yearning.
However, Ronan was their guardian. If he wanted to purchase colorful frocks for his wards, then who was to stop him? He didn’t give ten curses what le beau monde thought of the girls wearing colors so early after their father’s passing.
