No, the worst part was that the lady in question was unmistakably Scarlet.
ChapterThree
The room erupted. Ladies were scandalized, as well they might be; Scarlet appeared delighted with her present, and gentlemen looked as though they were far too interested in how anatomically correct the painting was.
For all Sybil knew, some of the gentlemen in the room had a decent idea, and it was that thought, more than any other, that made her turn and flee from the room.
Out—that was her only coherent thought. There were other thoughts bouncing around her brain, but they were angry ones, about how her mother could bear to be looked at in such a vulgar way, about what people were going to say about her now.
And oh, if she knew Thomas, he was planning on displaying it somewhereprominent. He wouldn’t even keep it in their bedchamber. No, if he’d been planning on doing that, he wouldn’t have made such a show of unveiling it.
People would come from miles around, she knew. They would come and they would gossip and they would see the painting for themselves until thetonwould be fully aware that a portrait of Lady Jameson—soon to be Lady Averley—was on display. Anyone who wanted to see the curve of her hip, the precise diameter of her thighs, the heavy fullness of her breasts, could pay a visit to this house and see for themselves.
That convent sounded like a better idea than ever.
So caught up in picturing the depths of her family’s descent into scandal was she, that she didn’t notice the footman emerging from the servants’ corridor, a tray in his hands. She checked herself too late, and before she could twist away or stop, she’d collided with him. The tray and all its contents clattered to the floor and he stepped back.
One hand on the wall, she was about to apologize when the footman fixed a blue-eyed glare at her that was so unlike the expression of any footman she’d ever encountered, that she stopped.
“Are you in the habit of careening madly through houses?” he asked icily. “May I recommend next time you pay attention to where you’re going?”
Incensed, she glared at him right back. “Oh, and I suppose this accident was entirely my doing, was it?”
“I didn’t see anyone else bolting like a stray horse.”
“How dare you compare me to ahorse,” she said through gritted teeth. If she wasn’t careful, she would end up screaming or crying at him, and that really would be a disaster.
One did not scream at the servants. It would be beneath her dignity, even if the superior expression on his handsome face made her want to wring his neck.
“I would thank you not to crash into me spilling my tray so I don’t have an excuse to visit the saloon,” he said, a dark eyebrow raising as he took her in. For the first time, she took stock of him. The livery didn’t quite fit as well as it could have done over his broad shoulders, and there was a haughty look in his blue eyes that made him look almost regal. Added to the tight press of his thin lips and the lines of his straight nose, the effect would have been almost overwhelming, if Sybil was in the mood to be overwhelmed.
“Oh, and I presume the only reason you’re doing yourjobis so you have an opportunity to ogle at my family,” she flashed. “Is that all we are to you?”
“Ah, soyou’reLady Sybil Wilson,” he said, a light kindling in his eyes and a sardonic smile playing across that bladelike mouth of his. “I hadn’t thought you had so much fire in you.”
“Howdareyou speak to me in this insolent fashion.”
“A prude, too,” he said, and his gaze flickered across her dress as though he could see every inch of her, which was ludicrous because her dress wasextremelymodest. “I see the rumors did not do you justice, My Lady.”
“I would thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. And you may be sure I will be speaking to Lord Averley about your behavior. You may as well pack your bags now.”
The sardonic smile didn’t leave his lips, but anger flashed across his eyes. “You may try, but—”
“Lady Sybil,” Thomas called from behind her. “What do you mean by fleeing in such a way?” His tone brooked trouble, and as tempting as it was to take out her anger on the most arrogant and insolent footman she’d ever had the misfortune to meet, she didn’t want to risk facing Thomas.
Not yet. Not until she could get her emotions under control.
Without another word, to the footman or to Thomas, she hitched up her skirts and fled once more, to the main door and out onto the gravel front. The avenue, flanked by trees, stretched before her, and to the right a small woodland and a lake.
She wasn’t thinking about where she was going as she ran, her flimsy shoes no match for the uncomfortable ground. All she knew was she had to get away, and discover one way or another, if she could learn to live down this latest humiliation, and how on earth she was going to manage it.
* * *
George watched Lady Sybil sprint out of the door as though her life depended on it, glossy blonde curls bouncing down her back as she left, the front door wide open.
“You there,” Lord Averley commanded as he approached. “Pick up the tray at once. What is the meaning of this?”
George contemplated the silver tray and the crystal glasses that lay shattered across the floor. Marble, it transpired, was not a forgiving surface. It would take him a long time to collect all the tiny shards and to arrange for a maid to sweep up the remainder of the dust.
