people’?” she asked Mr. Brummell when he stopped to pay his respects.
“The duke’s neighbors, so I’ve been told. Twenty of them to be exact, and a more dowdy-looking lot of provincials I have never seen.”
He raised his quizzing glass to study a stout silver haired matron in a many-hued gown, which gave her the appearance of a well-fed peacock. Beside her stood an equally stout gentleman in a long-tailed jacket of watered silk and purple satin knee britches. “Heaven help us, I do believe the fellow is wearing a bagwig,” the Beau exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “The ridiculous things went out of fashion fifty years ago.”
He shuddered. “And these people are the cream of the local gentry. God only knows what we may expect from the sixty who ‘ve been invited for the ball and midnight supper. I begin to understand why Montford rarely visits this particular estate.”
Emily was duly seated near the foot of the table between the Earl of Sudsley and Squire Bosley, neither of whom was the most inspiring of dinner companions. The earl, as usual, was so castaway he ended up face dawn in a plate of roast venison and currant sauce, and was quietly carried to his chambers by two brawny young footmen.
The squire, on the other hand, belched his way through all nine courses, simultaneously reciting the pedigrees of the thirty-odd foxhounds, setters, and pointers that made up his excellent kennel. By the time dessert was served, Emily felt certain that if she never learned another thing about the breeding of hunting dogs, she would still know far more than she cared to.
Meanwhile across the table, Lady Lucinda flirted openly with the Earl of Chillingham despite her mama’s fulminating looks and Lady Sudsley’s pointed remarks that a certain young lady was obviously no better than she should be. Emily cringed, her premonition of impending disaster so strong, she patted her hair to make certain it wasn’t standing on end.
Lady Hargrave’s whispered comment as the ladies adjourned to the gold salon, leaving the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars, only added to her presentiment. “Don’t you dare let Lucinda out of your sight for one minute tonight, or so help me, my girl, you’ll have more than your penury to worry about,” she hissed in Emily’s ear. “This is no time for the featherhead to cut up smart. I have it on good authority the duke is planning to select his duchess tonight and I can tell, from the warm way he looks at her, Lucinda leads the pack. “
Emily’s blood ran cold at the thought, but she felt certain Lady Hargrave was simply indulging in her usual wishful thinking. As far as she could see, the duke’s handsome £ace was still frozen in the same look of unremitting boredom he had worn since he’d arrived at Brynhaven.
Exactly thirty minutes from the time the ladies withdrew, the gentlemen joined them to repair to the ballroom. To Emily’s surprise, Mr. Brummell offered her his arm. “Ah, Miss Haliburton, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured in his rich, cultured accents as they strolled the perimeter of the vast ballroom.
“Don’t you mean a sight to make eyes sore, Mr. Brummell?” Emily asked with a smile, glancing down at the only gown she owned which approximated a ball gown—the despised red and white.
Mr. Brummell laughed. “True, my dear, you do imbue one with a desire to hang mistletoe and light the Yule log in the merry month of May, but your sparkling wit blinds me to the incongruity of your attire. I look forward to your conversation with the same eagerness a starving man yearns for a loaf of fresh baked bread. I have just endured two of the most dismal hours of my life listening to Lady Sudsley’s chatter. I swear, that appalling pea-goose could talk the hide off an Indian rhinoceros.”
Emily couldn’t help but smile at the ill-humored analogy, but she withheld comment. “You have traveled to India, Mr. Brummell?” she asked innocently.
“Not yet,
“The duke’s neighbors, so I’ve been told. Twenty of them to be exact, and a more dowdy-looking lot of provincials I have never seen.”
He raised his quizzing glass to study a stout silver haired matron in a many-hued gown, which gave her the appearance of a well-fed peacock. Beside her stood an equally stout gentleman in a long-tailed jacket of watered silk and purple satin knee britches. “Heaven help us, I do believe the fellow is wearing a bagwig,” the Beau exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. “The ridiculous things went out of fashion fifty years ago.”
He shuddered. “And these people are the cream of the local gentry. God only knows what we may expect from the sixty who ‘ve been invited for the ball and midnight supper. I begin to understand why Montford rarely visits this particular estate.”
Emily was duly seated near the foot of the table between the Earl of Sudsley and Squire Bosley, neither of whom was the most inspiring of dinner companions. The earl, as usual, was so castaway he ended up face dawn in a plate of roast venison and currant sauce, and was quietly carried to his chambers by two brawny young footmen.
The squire, on the other hand, belched his way through all nine courses, simultaneously reciting the pedigrees of the thirty-odd foxhounds, setters, and pointers that made up his excellent kennel. By the time dessert was served, Emily felt certain that if she never learned another thing about the breeding of hunting dogs, she would still know far more than she cared to.
Meanwhile across the table, Lady Lucinda flirted openly with the Earl of Chillingham despite her mama’s fulminating looks and Lady Sudsley’s pointed remarks that a certain young lady was obviously no better than she should be. Emily cringed, her premonition of impending disaster so strong, she patted her hair to make certain it wasn’t standing on end.
Lady Hargrave’s whispered comment as the ladies adjourned to the gold salon, leaving the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars, only added to her presentiment. “Don’t you dare let Lucinda out of your sight for one minute tonight, or so help me, my girl, you’ll have more than your penury to worry about,” she hissed in Emily’s ear. “This is no time for the featherhead to cut up smart. I have it on good authority the duke is planning to select his duchess tonight and I can tell, from the warm way he looks at her, Lucinda leads the pack. “
Emily’s blood ran cold at the thought, but she felt certain Lady Hargrave was simply indulging in her usual wishful thinking. As far as she could see, the duke’s handsome £ace was still frozen in the same look of unremitting boredom he had worn since he’d arrived at Brynhaven.
Exactly thirty minutes from the time the ladies withdrew, the gentlemen joined them to repair to the ballroom. To Emily’s surprise, Mr. Brummell offered her his arm. “Ah, Miss Haliburton, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured in his rich, cultured accents as they strolled the perimeter of the vast ballroom.
“Don’t you mean a sight to make eyes sore, Mr. Brummell?” Emily asked with a smile, glancing down at the only gown she owned which approximated a ball gown—the despised red and white.
Mr. Brummell laughed. “True, my dear, you do imbue one with a desire to hang mistletoe and light the Yule log in the merry month of May, but your sparkling wit blinds me to the incongruity of your attire. I look forward to your conversation with the same eagerness a starving man yearns for a loaf of fresh baked bread. I have just endured two of the most dismal hours of my life listening to Lady Sudsley’s chatter. I swear, that appalling pea-goose could talk the hide off an Indian rhinoceros.”
Emily couldn’t help but smile at the ill-humored analogy, but she withheld comment. “You have traveled to India, Mr. Brummell?” she asked innocently.
“Not yet,
Similar Books
