Lady Thurston wasn’t the least put out by Sophie’s tardiness. She was too busy sending servants to search for the six other missing guests. Apparently, getting lost in Haldon Hall was also something of a tradition.
The dinner was an elaborate affair, with dish after dish of foods Sophie had never tried before…lobster, oysters, escargot. Unfortunately, she was unable to enjoy much of it. Lady Thurston had seated her between Lord Verant and Mr. Johnson, both “Listed Gentlemen” and both exceedingly dull dinner companions. It took all her energy to maintain a conversation and appear suitably silly in the process.
Farther up the table, Alex viewed his plate dispassionately. He loved oysters, but watching Sophie flirt shamelessly with her two companions turned his stomach.
Enough was enough, he decided. He’d shown the patience of Job these last few weeks, stifling every instinct that screamed at him to set himself between Sophie and her admirers and yell, “Mine!” Maybe even thumping his chest once or twice. Certainly, he’d wanted to thump their chests a few times, and what he ached to do with her chest didn’t bear pondering in public.
And all for what? A few stolen kisses. As lovely as those had been, Alex wanted more. He wanted all of her. Her time and attention. Her affection. And he didn’t want to share.
He watched her giggle at something Lord Verant said. Oh, he’d been patient all right. He deserved a bloody sainthood.
“Do stop glowering, Alex dear. People will think there’s something wrong with the food.”
Alex gave his hostess an apologetic smile. “The food is wonderful. I’m afraid I was lost in thought.”
“Yes,” Lady Thurston replied nonchalantly. “She is a lovely girl. And such an eye for fashion.”
Alex prudently kept his mouth shut and found a renewed interest in shellfish.
Something had to be done.
The next night featured the opening ball that signaled the official start of the party. Sophie stood with Mirabelle and the newly introduced Evie Cole a little way from the dance floor. Poor Kate had been left behind in her room. Not yet officially out, she would have to settle for a detailed account of the ball from her friends.
Sophie found Evie fascinating. She was shorter and a good deal more curvaceous than the other two girls, with light brown hair and a face that Sophie thought was rather pretty despite the thin scar that ran from her temple to her jaw.
There was a shy wariness about her at first, and she was given to the occasional stutter. But after a time, Evie began to relax. And as Mirabelle related the story of how Sophie had tossed out her own cousin, Evie grew more and more animated, revealing a woman of clever mind and sharp tongue. It was, to Sophie’s mind, a considerable transformation of appearances.
Their conversation lulled as Alex and Whit approached. As always, Alex was splendidly turned out in his formal attire, opting for black when some of the young gentlemen were sporting waistcoat colors that bordered on outrageous, putting Sophie to mind of overgrown flightless parrots.
The usual round of greetings followed, strictly adhering to tradition and the rules of etiquette, until Whit turned to Mirabelle and, in a surprisingly cool tone, said, “Imp.”
Sophie watched as Mirabelle’s normally luminous eyes slowly narrowed into angry little slits before she dropped a quick and careless curtsy.
“Cretin.” There was a wealth of feeling in Mirabelle’s greeting, and none of it pleasant.
Whit returned her glare with a cocky grin. “Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here. Lord knows you’re never anywhere else.”
Mirabelle pasted on a coy smile and opened her eyes wide in mock distress. “Oh dear, you’re displeased with my attendance to night, aren’t you? Well, this is your home so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just say my good-byes to your mother and be on my way.”
“Mirabelle,” Whit growled.
“She did issue the invitation after all and I would be remiss in not giving her a full and detailed explanation for my early departure. What would you like me to tell her, Whit? Shall I just mention that you asked me to leave?”
“Don’t you dare.”
“No? Well, that you turned me out then? Sent me packing?”
“Mirabelle—”
“Really, you are entirely too difficult to please. Tossed me out on my ear, strenuously encouraged my immediate absence?”
“If you even think—”
“Booted, exiled, or otherwise uninvited me? Come now, Whit, don’t look so frightened, it’s most unmasculine of you. Surely your mother will acquiesce to your wishes. You are the man of the house are you not?”
“That is enough.”
“Yes. I rather think it will do,” she replied jauntily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s far past time for me to pay my respects to the hostess.” Mirabelle left with what could really only be called a smirk and a swagger.
Sophie rather felt Mirabelle deserved her victory. Whit had been decidedly rude. At the moment he was watching Mirabelle with some trepidation. “She wouldn’t.”