CHAPTER 24
Aunt Lucinda’s Soirée
When Friday evening finally arrived, Maggie and the Birdwells piled into Edward’s finest coach, invitation in hand, and set off for Upper Brooke Street in Mayfair, and the home of the Dowager Duchess of Amberley.
Edward complimented both sisters, and Maggie complimented her brother-in-law in turn. The marquess’s black-and-white formal garb of this evening was pristine; indeed, he looked as handsome as she had ever seen him.
Even Delia grumbled begrudging agreement.
His black tailcoat seemed to trim down his portly figure by a stone, and the jeweled cravat pin that adorned his throat twinkled with a sapphire that brought out the blue in his eyes.
Lady Birdwell was dressed as resplendently as ever in a gown of bluish-purple satin with silver lace trim. Her hair was adorned with an iris bloom, and the effect was striking.
Though her sister had still not apologized, Maggie went out on a limb to offer the observation that the flower’s jewel tone flattered her auburn hair. Delia thanked her but still refused eye contact, and certainly did not return the praise.
No matter. Maggie sat undaunted. Not even Delia’s unpleasantness could dampen her excitement over seeing Connor tonight. She dropped her gaze to her lap, where she clasped her fingers, and smiled privately, complimenting herself.
She knew she looked her best this evening—for her future husband, of course. With Penelope’s assistance, she had chosen a flowing, high-waisted, watered silk gown of pearl white with a hint of pink and a crimson sash to match the rosettes that encircled the skirts at the knee. A white ruffle of lace edged the small puff sleeves and daring décolletage, which sat low around her shoulders.
He’d like that, she thought, biting her lip as it curved into a smile.
She wished she could have found a way to end the bristling silence inside the coach, though, as the horses went clip-clopping through the streets.
When they rounded the corner at Hyde Park, Maggie glanced out the window and felt a twinge of anger to recall being stranded there in the rain. But she flicked the memory away. Tonight, she’d be with Connor, and that was all that mattered.
It had been three days since they’d visited Mr. Trumbull. She wasn’t sure what her darling neighbor had been up to in the meanwhile, but for her part, she’d been busy with various things, not the least of which had been a bit of preliminary daydreaming about their wedding. Each night, of course, she’d kept an eye out her bedroom window for the lantern signal, just in case.
It didn’t come.
She didn’t mind. She would never be the sort of woman who constantly demanded to be the center of his life. They needn’t suffocate each other.
As the Birdwell carriage rolled on, she mused with pleasure on various aspects of the affection she and her wild Irishman had discovered, and the beautiful love she knew would continue to unfold…
At length, traveling north on Park Lane, with the wrought-iron gate that surrounded Hyde Park on their left, and some of the most fashionable streets in London to their right, they turned in at Upper Brooke Street.
Hubert slowed the vehicle just around the corner, where a queue of elegant carriages waited to deliver their guests to a magnificent terrace house on the right.
“Are you going to be in a mood all night?” Edward murmured to his wife as his coach crept forward the last few feet to halt before their destination.
Delia let out a small, aloof huff and looked out the window at the other homes. “I’m only here because she is a duchess, Ed. You can’t say no.”
“Charming,” he mumbled.
Then the footman was opening the door for them, letting down the step. Excitement whooshed through Maggie. Edward got out first, handed down Delia, and then assisted Maggie, the lower-ranking female, as she alighted.
Delia took her husband’s arm and Maggie followed, her heart pounding as they walked toward the porticoed entrance of the dragon lady’s lair.
Smoothing her skirts, Maggie wondered if Connor had been introduced yet to the young ladies his great-aunt deemed worthy to be his bride—and what he thought of each one.
Not that she was jealous. She just wanted the First Duchess to approve of her, too. Then they walked into the entrance hall and her nervous thoughts were blotted out by the buzz of conversation and the distant music of a stringed ensemble playing somewhere upstairs.
Maggie estimated there were about a hundred guests present so far, a fine-sized gathering for this home, though it could have easily fit twice that number.
The duchess’s house seemed about the same size as Edward’s, with four stories and three banks of windows across. Ahead, a magnificent William Kent staircase waited between creamy white Ionic columns to take them upstairs.
With lacy wrought-iron rails beneath the shining oaken banister, the frothy staircase fountained up to two galleried stories, both visible from the entrance hall. The corbelled ceiling soared far above, and from the peachy painted walls adorned with white plaster garlands, a pair of marble busts peered down from round niches.
Liveried footman posted here and there assisted the glittering crowd. Throughout the entrance hall, the candlelight burnished the touches of gilt everywhere, even though the rosy glow of sunset still streamed through the large fanlights over the front door.
Maggie took it all in with wonder, joining the orderly queue of guests ascending the staircase. She carefully lifted the hem of her gown and followed Delia and Edward up the white marble steps.
As they progressed slowly to the main floor, where the soirée proper was taking place, she noticed an opulent sedan chair that had been pushed up against the wall in the ground floor corridor leading from the entrance hall toward the back of the house. For some reason, it amused her.
She had never met the First Duchess of Amberley, but the woman sounded like one of those grand old souls who enjoyed being carried around by footmen like a queen. Delia should probably buy one, she thought with a twitch of her lips.
When they reached the first floor, the splendor continued in the drawing room, where wallpaper with garden vines and delicate flowers adorned the walls above a rose-colored carpet. Small landscape paintings hung here and there, and atop the mantel of the green marble fireplace sat a large mechanical clock under a glass dome.
Ornate lamps of brilliant blue glass dangled from the ceiling, and pocket doors opened up to a music room beyond. On the right lay a small ballroom the same length as the combined chambers on the other side. It had beautiful parquetry floors, handsome pilasters, and three crystal chandeliers.
At the far end of the entire house along this floor, Maggie noticed French doors letting out onto a shallow balcony that overlooked the garden.
She did not see Connor, but realized that the large woman seated beside the empty fireplace was their hostess.
Grandaunt Lucinda wore a voluminous gown of black lace with an ebony toque to match; a cluster of rubies sparkled on the brooch at the center of her hat. Frowning, the heavyset old woman waved a tasseled fan as she presided over the trio of young debs who sat with her.
Maggie’s stare homed in on them. Ah, the approved choices. The first was a rail-thin brunette with a large nose. The second was a tepid-looking flaxen blonde with a weak chin and a wan complexion. The third had curly red hair and a freckled face, and Maggie decided in a glance that none of them would do for him.
All the same, she did not envy them their place of honor at the moment.
None of the girls dared to move as the dowager duchess commanded their attention, holding forth on God knew what subject.
Maybe telling them how to run a home. Or raise a child.
Maggie wouldn’t dream of interrupting. Instead, she gravitated toward the ballroom, where she spotted her friends. While Delia and Edward went to greet some of their acquaintances, Maggie was joyfully reunited with Trinny, Viscountess Roland.
The new mother was wearing a glorious emerald gown in one of those sophisticated jewel tones reserved for married women.
“Lady Roland!” Maggie teased. “You look splendid.”
“Maggie!” Trinny greeted her with a light kiss on the cheek. “So do you.”
“Truly, I’m not just saying that,” Maggie said. “I love this on you.”
“Do you?” The redhead beamed, smoothing her skirts. “I always wanted to wear this color before, but Mother would never allow me.”
Maggie chuckled. “I’m glad to see you here. How goes the soirée so far?”
“Oh, it’s lovely. Her Grace has a beautiful home.” Trinny’s eyes danced as she beckoned Maggie closer. “You’ll never believe what she said when Gable and I were presented to her.”
“What did she say?” Maggie whispered.
Visibly fighting a grin, Trinny lowered her voice as she imitated the dragon: “‘Only peasants elope, young lady.’ And she hoped I haven’t damaged my younger sisters’ hopes of making good matches with my ‘wild behavior.’”
Maggie gasped. “She really is a dragon lady, then?”
“I’ll say. Proceed with caution, my friend.” Trinny waved the comment off. “I don’t mind. I knew what I was getting into.”
“God love you. How did Gable react?”
“Oh, he laughed, of course, as he always does, the cynic. Then he went to find Amberley. I’m sure the poor duke needed some moral support by that time.”
“Have the Rivenwoods arrived yet?”
“Came and left, I’m sorry to report,” Trinny said, shaking her head.
“What? Why?”
“Well… Serena was not as forgiving as you or I might be about the rude remark the duchess made to Azrael.”
“Oh no. What did she say to him?” Maggie asked, appalled.
“Something about his bloodlines being vile.”
Maggie’s jaw dropped. “Vile? She actually said that?”
Trinny nodded, wide-eyed. “In front of a room full of people. Poor Azrael. He just smirked—I guess he’d rather have people say it to his face than behind his back—but for a moment there, I thought Serena might actually slap her.”
“Good heavens! This woman really is a termagant, then. Oh God,” Maggie added in a low tone, “now I’m terrified to meet her.” She was only half joking.
Trinny shook her head, then glanced toward the drawing room. “How those poor girls must feel, trapped beside her! I would not want to be one of them right now. Why is she holding them prisoner like that?”
Maggie gave her an arch look. “Why do you think?”
Trinny tilted her head. “No…! She’s matchmaking for him?”
“She’s trying, from what I understand.”
“No wonder the poor man’s hiding!” Trinny said with a chuckle.
Maggie grinned. “Have you seen him?”
“Yes.” Trinny smiled, nodding toward the far end of the ballroom. “He’s down that way somewhere with my husband. Those two seem to get on famously, don’t they? Between you and me, Gable is in awe of the man.”
That makes two of us. Maggie followed Trinny’s gaze across the ballroom just as Connor stepped in through the open French doors.
Her mouth fell open when she saw him, for he was in full dress uniform tonight, resplendent in his scarlet coat with black-and-gold facings. His mighty shoulders looked cliff-like, gleaming with gold epaulets. The black sash ’round his lean waist accented his V-shaped physique, and his white dress breeches shone bright as snow.
Maggie stood tongue-tied, ogling him from across the room, while Trinny glanced at her with amusement.
Thankfully, Edward emerged just then from down at the music room, greeting the duke. Delia followed, and Maggie regained her wits when she witnessed the frosty nod that Connor gave her sister—but as he shook Edward’s hand, he obviously realized that Maggie must have arrived, too.
His glance swept the ballroom and landed on her in a trice. At once, a grin lit up his handsome face, and Maggie smiled in return, blushing.
“My, my,” Trinny murmured. “You two are getting on well, aren’t you?”
Maggie was dying to tell her that they would be married, but somehow she swallowed the glorious news for now—though she could not quite dim her beaming smile.
“His Grace is…surprisingly amiable,” she coyly admitted.
“More so than Bryce, my dear?”
“Much more,” she said, then Connor marched across the ballroom to join them.
“Welcome, Lady Margaret,” he said warmly.
“Good evening, Your Grace—or should I say Major? I hardly know whether to curtsy or salute,” she teased.
“Ah, if it were up to me, I’d rather greet you with a kiss. But we wouldn’t want to start a scandal now, would we?” Instead, he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a brief kiss to her knuckles, holding her gaze as roguery twinkled in his cobalt eyes.
Maggie felt heat flooding into her face and rather feared she had just turned as red as his coat.
“You look radiant,” he said. “You both do,” he added, smiling at Trinny.
“Such flattery, Your Grace,” Trinny said with an airy wave of her hand.
“Have I told you how much I love the Rolands, Lady Margaret?”
Maggie smiled. “As do I. How’s the baby, anyway?”
“Oh, don’t ask her that,” Connor teased with a groan. “We’ll be here all night.”
Trinny smacked him on the arm, and he laughed. “He is all that’s plump and happy and adorable,” she informed Maggie. “But I’m sure you can bear to hear all the latest details until later in the evening. Humph!” she said playfully to the duke.
“Ah, never mind me, Lady Roland,” Connor said with a grin. “Truth is, I’m just jealous, y’see. I’ve always thought ’twould be a fine thing to have lots of children at home. Babies everywhere, loads of ’em—the louder and stinkier, the better. What say you, Lady Margaret?”
Maggie stared at him, speechless.
Trinny laughed heartily and clapped the duke on the arm. “That’s the spirit, Your Grace! You’ll need help with that, though, to the best of my understanding of how it all works. Won’t he, Maggie?” Trinny’s eyes danced with mischief. “Know anyone who’d like to volunteer?”
Maggie’s eyes widened as she stared at her friend. You redheaded rascal! Trinny laughed gaily while Maggie did nothing but stammer incoherently.
“Hmm, do they mean to start the dancing soon?” Trinny asked, glancing toward the musicians.
Connor shrugged.
“Think I’ll go ask,” the viscountess said, then sailed off to leave them alone, the little matchmaker.
“You are altogether naughty!” Maggie finally said, still blushing, when she finally regained her tongue.
“I was only being honest,” Connor teased. “You do want children, don’t you?”
“Well, of course. Not stinky ones, in particular…”
“They’re all stinky, Maggie. It’s part of their charm.”
Laughing softly, she wanted so much to embrace him and give him a proper greeting. But that was impossible, since, for now, in the eyes of the ton, they were no more than friends. The memory of his mouth at her breast and other places on her body filled her with desire, though, as his fond gaze caressed her.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said, though she thought she detected a troubled flicker in the depths of his eyes. “Can I get you something to drink? There are refreshments in the music room.”
“No, thank you, stay. How are you enjoying your party so far, my dear guest of honor?”
Connor snorted. “Surviving it. I missed you,” he added in a low tone.
“I missed you, too. But, um, shouldn’t you be on a receiving line somewhere?”
“Aunt Lucinda promised me we would not be so formal as that. Frankly,” he murmured, glancing around, “I have no idea who most of these people are.”
“But you have met the three young ladies, I trust?”
“Oh yes,” he said dryly.
“Well?” As he hesitated, her sense of the nervous energy about him tonight grew stronger. “What’s wrong, darling?” she murmured, briefly touching his arm. “You seem on edge.”
“It’s all just a little unseemly, I guess,” he said gruffly. “Can you believe two of those three girls were aimed at Cousin Richard last Season? Aunt Florence told me so. Now they’re being shoved at me, as though all titled men are interchangeable. It’s disturbing. I feel like some sort of harlot being peddled to the highest bidder—not that it matters. My affections lie elsewhere, obviously. I should have told my aunt so before tonight, but she had her plan, and things happened so quickly between us. So I’m merely being polite until I can tell her this was all wasted effort.”
Maggie smiled sympathetically. “Well, don’t worry. It’ll be over soon.”
Indeed, the structure of the evening had been laid out in orderly fashion in the invitations. The soirée was to last for precisely four hours. From seven until nine, there would be biscuits and hors d’oeuvres, a little dancing, and cards. From nine to eleven, the guests would enjoy a light supper and cake.
And then Her Grace wanted everybody out.
To be sure, the Dowager Duchess of Amberley was a woman who knew her own mind.
“As long as you’re not cross at me for this,” Connor said, scanning her face.
“Not at all. I understand you must tread delicately here.”
He nodded.
“Besides, what woman could be cross at so magnificent a specimen as you tonight, Major?”
He gave her a wry look. “Ah well. You’re here now, and that’s all I wanted. As for the ladies themselves, suffice to say I can see why Aunt Lucinda favors them.”
“Oh?” Maggie lifted her head with a twinge of jealousy. “Are they very pleasant?”
“No, they’re exactly like her.” He paused, sending Maggie a brief scowl. “The brunette had scarcely known me two minutes before she asked if I’d ever killed anyone in the war. Can you imagine? No, I was only there to learn how to play cribbage.”
Maggie pursed her lips. “It does seem an impertinent question. What did you tell her?”
“I said of course. Hundreds. Just to see how she’d react.”
“You are naughty.”
“Perhaps a slight exaggeration,” he said with a gleam in his eyes.
“What? Hundreds, really?” Maggie felt the blood drain from her face.
“Well, I didn’t keep count, exactly. But I was in for fifteen years, Maggie. You figure if it averaged out over time to one a month between battles and skirmishes and scouting missions, well, it comes out to…more than the number of guests here, at least.” He shrugged, gauging her reaction while she stood there dazed.
He stared at her. “Why? Does that bother you?”
Actually, Maggie was reeling with the news. She appreciated his honesty and did not want to seem as unnerved by his answer as those three girls in the other room. But, in truth, she could barely wrap her mind around this revelation.
“Maggie?”
“That is…surprising,” she managed at last.
He narrowed his eyes, assessing her. “You’re horrified.”
“N-no.”
“Yes, you are.”
“A little. It’s all right.” She felt a bit faint, but held up a hand, determined to steady herself. She just needed a moment. “I’m glad you told me. I just…never thought about it too much before. But you’re right. It was a war. And without men like you, we’d all be speaking French.”
“Speaking French would be the least of your worries,” he said grimly. “I’d be more concerned about guillotines.”
“Oh. Yes…” She finally looked up at him again, having gathered herself.
She found him watching her guardedly.
“You did what you had to do,” Maggie said, determined to show her support. “And after all, as you said, you weren’t there to play cribbage.”
He said nothing for a moment, then looked away. “This is why I hate it when people ask me that question, and they always do. There is no good answer.”
She laid her hand on his arm. “Fortunately, Connor, that life is far behind you now.”
He gazed wistfully at her. “Wish I could believe that.”
“Margaret!” Delia suddenly appeared with her nose in the air. “Come. We must go and pay our respects to our hostess. We mustn’t be rude.” She pivoted on her heel and stalked away again, expecting Maggie to follow.
“Far be it from your sister ever to be rude,” Connor said under his breath, hiding that brief glimpse of melancholy behind another roguish remark.
Maggie sent him a smile, glad for his quip breaking the uneasy tension that had rippled between them with his disturbing admission.
Now he changed the subject. “Has she apologized yet?”
“Don’t be silly, Your Grace.”
“She’s a hard one.”
“Aye,” Maggie said heartily, borrowing his favorite word.
Connor smiled. “Come, I’ll introduce you and your sister to both of my aunts. Brace yourself,” he added, then the two of them followed Delia into the drawing room, where Edward already waited.
They walked through the wide doorway and joined the queue of guests waiting to pay their respects to the hostess. The duchess’s house was becoming ever more crowded, but Maggie felt all upside down to think that Connor had single-handedly killed more people than were now crowded into the house.
Now, now, who are you to judge? she scolded herself. This man’s a hero.
She wasn’t judging him, though. She was just…a bit shocked.
Newly in love, she had been floating around in a bubble of happiness ever since he had proposed. Darker possibilities embedded within their alliance had not yet had time to emerge. But as she walked into the drawing room, feeling oddly numb and disjointed from reality after his revelation, she could not help wondering how well she really knew her future husband.
After all, she had known very little about Bryce, as it turned out.
What Connor had said just a few minutes ago was true—things had happened quickly between them. It was the first thing she had said to him when he’d offered marriage. “We’ve only known each other for ten days.” To be sure, they got on beautifully together, but standing back a bit from her swirling emotions, Maggie saw that perhaps she had allowed herself to be swept away by the first blush of passion. Even so, she knew what she felt for him was real.
Delia kept her back to Maggie as they waited in the queue to greet their hostesses, chatting with various people.
Connor was also socializing along the way. As the guest of honor, he was busy and could hardly attend to Maggie alone all evening, nor did she require him to. While he spoke with various guests, Maggie gazed about, taking in her surroundings, admiring the little landscape paintings on the walls.
As they neared the spot where the First Duchess was holding court, Maggie noticed a second elderly lady standing near the fireplace. While the larger woman sat enthroned with the three would-be brides arrayed beside her, the second lady stood, smiling anxiously at people here and there.
She was a frail, nervous-looking thing with an air of hapless vulnerability. Like the dowager duchess, she was clad in widow’s weeds. Her gray hair was gathered up into a chignon, and the only hint of color that she wore was an emerald brooch at her throat.
She noticed Maggie gazing at it, and her fingers rose to it self-consciously.
Maggie smiled at her. “What a beautiful brooch, if I may say so.”
“Oh, you like it, dear? It’s green, you see, in honor of His Grace. A-and the Emerald Isle.”
“How thoughtful.” Surprised but pleased by this small show of support for Connor’s Irish birth, Maggie gazed warmly at her. I wish I’d thought of that. “It’s lovely.”
“Aunt Florence is very kind,” Connor said from nearby, returning his attention to her. “Dear aunt, you must allow me to present Lady Margaret Winthrop, a daughter of the late Lord Halford.”
“Ah. It’s nice to meet you, dear.”
“Lady Margaret,” he continued, “this is Aunt Florence, Baroness Walstead.”
Maggie curtsied, though there wasn’t much room to move in the crush around the unlit fireplace. “How do you do.”
“Aunt Florence lives here with Aunt Lucinda,” he explained.
“Thank you for allowing me to come,” Maggie said.
“Oh, we’re glad to have you, dear. It’s so nice to have guests again.” Florence fretted, as though remembering the three recent deaths in the family.
Maggie did not wish to distress her. “You have a very beautiful home.”
“Oh yes,” Lady Walstead said with a vague look around. “It’s quite pleasant, being close to Hyde Park.”
“Aunt Florence, Lady Margaret is a neighbor of mine in Moonlight Square,” Connor said. “She lives with her kin there, Lord and Lady Birdwell.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” she said sweetly, looking relieved to find that she wasn’t the only one cast upon the hospitality of relatives.
Delia, meanwhile, was immersed in conversation with some woman, so Connor did not bother making that introduction quite yet.
“Florence!” the dowager duchess suddenly snapped, making the timid little baroness nearly jump out of her skin. “What was the name of that play I told you I wanted to see? At Drury Lane.”
“Oh, er, it was… I’m sorry. I-I cannot remember,” Florence said, shaking her head.
“Ugh, of course not. Her brain’s made of cheesecloth, I swan,” the First Duchess declared to her listener.
Maggie’s eyes widened, and her glance flew back to the unassuming Aunt Florence. The baroness lowered her head with a wounded air at the sting, but the dowager duchess did not take the least notice, continuing on with her conversation.
Maggie looked uneasily at Connor. He gave her a look that said, I warned you. Then he put his arm around his little aunt’s shoulder, gave her a kiss on the temple, and playfully asked her if the punch was strong enough to get them drunk.
Aunt Florence pooh-poohed his question, but lifted her head and gave him a grateful smile as her charming nephew teased away the hurt.
Maggie fell just a little more deeply in love with him, seeing his kindness. He might be a beast on the battlefield, but his heart was pure gold.
In any case, with her own introduction to the dragon lady looming, Maggie’s main concern was getting through the next few minutes unscathed.
If anyone could tolerate a few minutes in the presence of a bully like the duchess, surely it was she. After all, she’d dealt with Delia since birth.
The line to greet the dowager duchess moved slowly, in part, because Her Grace gave no thought to inconveniencing everybody present. It was her house, seemed to be her attitude, and everybody there could either dance to her tune or leave.
Just then, the butler came sidling along the wall, making his way to Connor, and trying to get his attention.
Maggie pointed him out, and Connor turned.
The butler bowed his head. “Pardon, Your Grace. The duchess earlier instructed me to inform you when the Duke of Wellington arrived: His Grace is below.”
“What? Wellington? Here?” Connor blurted out, his eyes widening.
“Yes, Your Grace. The duke has only a few moments to spare, I’m afraid, but he wishes to make your acquaintance, welcome you to London, and express his appreciation for your service.”
“Me?” Connor seemed tongue-tied. “I-I’ll be right there!” He turned to Maggie. “Ol’ Nosey’s here—to see me!”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Go on,” she said, nodding toward the doorway.
“I don’t…want to abandon you.”
“Nonsense. I’ll be fine. Lady Walstead can do the introductions, I’m sure. Would you mind?”
“I’d be delighted, my dear,” Florence said. “Run along, Amberley. Go see your field marshal.”
Connor actually gulped. “Wish me luck,” he said, smoothing his uniform coat.
“Good luck,” Maggie said with amusement.
Lady Florence and she exchanged a glance at his boyish awe, then he excused his way through the throng and hurried off to meet his idol in person.
When he’d gone, Maggie noticed that the three approved brides had spotted their quarry standing next to her for those few moments.
Now they looked daggers at her. She turned away self-consciously, gritting her teeth.
Perfect. Delia still wasn’t speaking to her. Those three were glaring at her like they wanted to snatch her up and toss her out the window. And she was about to be chained to a rock before the Kraken.
Nevertheless, she did a cursory introduction between Lady Florence and her sister before they arrived at the dragon’s seat. While Delia started preening in expectation of meeting the duchess, Maggie’s gaze wandered off through the wide-open pocket doors, where the crowd had parted to allow the Duke of Wellington to march up to the landing at the top of the stairs.
There, Connor met the great Irish-born general, who had masterminded the Monster’s demise. As some other uniformed fellow introduced the two, Maggie stifled a grin to see Connor looking stiff, intensely serious, and a bit self-conscious upon being presented to the Iron Duke.
At ease, Major. She shook her head as the queue shuffled forward, little by little. He is adorable.
Suddenly, Maggie felt Delia’s elbow drive discreetly into her side. Snapping to attention, she looked forward again, only to find the dragon lady’s stare locked on her. “And who have we here?”
Delia took a step, putting herself forward, as she was wont to do.
Fluttering closer, Florence humbly did the introductions. “Lucinda, allow me to present the Marchioness of Birdwell and her sister, Lady Margaret Winthrop—daughters of the late Earl of Halford.”
“I see,” said the dragon, narrowing her eyes at Maggie and her sister in turn.
Delia dropped a deep curtsy. She’d come to curry favor, after all. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Your Grace. Thank you for the invitation.”
“As if I had a choice,” their hostess muttered. “My nephew insisted that all his friends from Moonlight Square attend, and I don’t mind telling you, I do not approve of that place, on the whole.”
“Why ever not?” Delia blurted out.
“I know what goes on,” the duchess said. “That place has earned a reputation for scandal of late. In my view, no one of taste ought to live there. It’s a haven for scoundrels.” The duchess dissected her sister with a relishing stare, sizing her up, daring her to protest.
But the Marchioness of Birdwell was in no wise accustomed to being addressed in such a fashion.
Maggie was. So she saw in a glance exactly what was going on here. The dragon lady was testing her unsuspecting sister.
Unfortunately, before Maggie could restrain her, the proud, hotheaded Lady Birdwell dared to naysay the duchess—politely, of course.
Delia swallowed her startlement and forced out a superior laugh. “Allow me to assure Your Grace that most in our neighborhood are entirely respectable.”
“Oh? That may be your opinion, young lady. But mark my words. It only takes a few bad apples to spoil the lot! What say you to that?”
“Certainly not, ma’am,” said Delia.
Maggie kept her mouth shut, but her heart sank. Oh, Delia, you don’t bother arguing with such a woman. Trust me on this.
“Oh, I see!” said the dragon. “You would contradict me in my own home, then?”
Delia spluttered while Maggie glanced around discreetly. Where is Edward? she wondered with increasing distress, but the serene marquess was nowhere to be found.
Sensible as he was, perhaps he had simply refused to go near the duchess.
Delia must have finally realized that even she was outmatched by this fearsome enemy, and it was time to beat a hasty retreat.
“Not at all, Your Grace.” She cleared her throat and forced a smile. “Well! We are very glad to be here, in any case. And may I say, Your Grace has a lovely home.”
“So glad you approve, Lady Birdwell,” the termagant drawled. “No doubt, in your infinite wisdom, you know much more about what’s in fashion than I, hmm?”
Delia floundered at this renewed attack. Maggie looked on in alarm. The dragon’s eyes gleamed with cruel glee as she homed in on Delia for sport.
“Th-that’s not what I meant, ma’am.” Delia lowered her head, flustered. “I would never presume such a thing.”
That does it! thought Maggie. She was getting her sister out of here.
“Come, Delia.” She laid hold of her sister’s arm. “We don’t wish to take up any more of Her Grace’s precious time.”
The dragon’s belligerent stare swung to Maggie. “Something wrong, Lady— What was your name again? Madeline? Miranda? Milquetoast?”
“Margaret. Lady Margaret Winthrop, Your Grace.” Maggie’s heart leapt into her throat, but she held her head high. “And yes. Something is wrong, actually, as it happens.”
“Do tell.”
Maggie knew it was unwise but could not hold her tongue. Blast it, as much as she sometimes despised her maddening sister, she would not stand by and see her abused by this bully.
“Frankly, Your Grace, I am shocked, shocked, I say, to hear such barbaric remarks directed at guests in one’s home!”
The ongoing chatter around them stopped at the sound of her loud, angry declaration.
“Aha.” The dowager duchess beamed as though she had just found a worthy opponent. “This one has spirit. Your sister presumes to judge my tastes, Lady Margaret.”
“She gave you a compliment!” Maggie exclaimed.
“It isn’t her place. Do I require praise from a self-important little marchioness that everybody hates?”
Delia gasped, her eyes widening at this unprovoked attack, then her cheeks turned scarlet. She turned around, gathered up her peacock-colored skirts, and bolted out of the drawing room in tears.
“Delia!” Maggie cried, left standing there alone.
“Somebody better fetch Birdy,” one of the other guests murmured, while the duchess laughed gaily, basking in her victory.
“Yes, run, run away, little marchioness!”
Maggie turned to her, infuriated. “How dare you speak to my sister that way?”
“Oh, you object, do you?”
“Most heartily, madam!”
The duchess leaned forward. “And what are you going to do about it, then, you impertinent little baggage?”
Maggie leaned toward her, narrowing her eyes. “Why don’t you ask your nephew?” she answered quietly.
The dowager’s laughter stopped, and her gloating smile turned to a glare. “Ah, have designs on him, do you? Well, too bad! Don’t get your hopes up. Little nobody. I know of your family. Your father foolishly died without male issue. You are therefore of no possible significance in the world, and thus have no chance of joining this family. What say you to that, Lady Milquetoast?”
Maggie saw red. “What a rare beast you are, madam! Inviting people here to your home so that you might attack them!”
The duchess merely shrugged, waving her fan. “The whole ton knows I have an acerbic wit. Those who cannot withstand it should stay at home. That is all.”
“No, madam, that is not all.” Maggie was now quivering with wrath. “Nobody speaks to my sister that way. You bring dishonor to my family and your own, showing such incivility to a guest.”
“Dear me! Such censure from a little milk-and-water miss.”
Maggie clenched her fists at this particular accusation. For, in truth, it was her worst fear about herself. “I am not a milk-and-water miss, for your information,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Oh? What are you, then?”
“The daughter of the Earl of Halford, ma’am.” And the future Duchess of Amberley, she almost said, but somehow managed to keep their secret.
“As for you, Your Grace…” Maggie leaned closer. “People warned me you were a dragon, but I see now they were wrong.” She pointed her finger in the old woman’s face. “You, madam, are an ogress!”
A loud, rude “Ha!” suddenly sounded from the back of the drawing room, which Maggie now realized, in the throes of her trembling outburst, had gone absolutely silent.
Her pulse pounding, she had forgotten all about the other people in the room.
The three approved debs were staring at her, open-mouthed, and, peeking from the corner of her eye, Maggie beheld the crowd of guests gaping at her with expressions both shocked and appalled.
At the back of the room stood Connor, however, wearing a devilish grin that stretched from ear to ear.
Maggie suddenly felt the room spinning. With a gulp, she looked over at little Lady Walstead.
Who was gazing at her in wonder.
Maggie was filled in that instant with an overwhelming need to get out of there. How she kept herself from running as swiftly as the god Hermes in his winged shoes, she knew not.
But somehow, she straightened up, lowered her hand to her side, and lifted her chin, pivoting to face the stunned crowd with all the dignity she could muster.
People cleared out of her path as she walked slowly, head high, out of the silent room.
Upon gaining the galleried staircase landing, she noted—with considerable relief—that Wellington had gone. One did not wish to make a fool of oneself in front of a national hero, after all.
But the staircase was clear, so she went right past Connor and fled down the steps as fast as her slippered feet would carry her.
“Maggie?”
She didn’t look back.
The entrance hall was still thick with guests; she’d never make it out the front door. Instead, she flung around the newel post and hurried down the ground-floor hallway, forging deeper into the house, in frantic search of an exit.
Heart pounding, she tried all the while to fathom what on earth had come over her. It seemed inexplicable. But hearing that dreadful woman abuse everyone around her—even sweet Lady Walstead—was more than she could bear.
No one had ever sent Delia running away in shamefaced tears before. Seeing that had cracked something open inside her that Maggie had never felt before: an instinctive need to fight back, protect her own, no matter how flawed they might be.
At last, she found an exit at the back of the house and strode out into the night-clad garden on legs that had turned to jelly beneath her.
Gulping in deep breaths of cool night air, she walked off across the terrace in a daze, pressing both hands to her forehead. Oh Lord, what have I done?
But she knew. She was fairly sure she had just destroyed her own reputation.