too long.
Annabelle could not blame her. Montgomery’s straight shoulders filled the black evening jacket perfectly, and the pale gray of his waistcoat made his eyes gleam like polished silver. He was a picture of masculine elegance that would compel any woman who was entitled to do so to steal second touches.
“And you must be Miss Archer.” The countess’s expression was mildly curious. “Poor thing, how ghastly to be taken ill at such a merry time.”
Lady Lingham had that look that her father used to describe as “long of face and large of tooth,” a look that was considered appealing chiefly because it spoke of centuries of wealth and good breeding. She had also mastered the art of effortless elegance—her sleek gray gown clung to her lithe figure in all the right places and the knot of blond hair atop her head looked deceptively simple. A maid could spend an hour on creating such a knot. It would never work with Annabelle’s mass of wavy hair.
When they entered the sitting room, a dozen pairs of eyes shifted to the duke like metal to a magnet. Lady Lingham detached herself from his arm as people began drifting toward them, and then she alarmed Annabelle by taking her elbow as if they were old confidantes. “Take a turn around the room with me, Miss Archer.”
Warily, Annabelle fell into step beside her. They were of similar height, but the countess was fine boned like a bird, the touch of her gloved hand hardly registering on her arm. Delicate lines rayed from the corners of her cool blue eyes. Intelligent eyes. Montgomery had not picked a simpering miss for his arrangement, and she wasn’t sure whether she found this good or bad.
“Thank you for inviting me tonight, my lady,” she said.
Lady Lingham’s eyes twinkled. “The pleasure is mine. The neighborhood was abuzz about you.” She gave a little laugh. “Oh, no need to look startled. Of course there will be gossip, and all of it too ludicrous to be borne. My lady’s maid was adamant that Montgomery was seen with you up on his horse, riding across the fields like a knight in shining armor with his princess.”
What?
“Goodness,” she managed.
“Precisely,” Lady Lingham said, shaking her head, “so do not fret. Everyone knows Montgomery would never contemplate such a display. He tells me you are from a clergy family?”
“Yes, my lady.” What else had Montgomery told the countess about her?
“How charming,” Lady Lingham said, “and so I have just the table partner for you.”
They had reached a slight, dark-haired man who stood by himself next to a large potted plant.
“Miss Archer, meet Peter Humphrys, the curate on my estate.”
Peter Humphrys’s blush was instant and fierce when he bowed far too low. “What a pleasure, Miss Archer,” he exclaimed. “This splendid evening has just become even more splendid.” He promptly followed them around the room for the remaining introductions to Lady Lingham’s other neighbors.
There was the Earl of Marsden, a heavyset older nobleman with florid cheeks who looked straight through her. His wife kept touching her bony fingers to the egg-sized ruby pendant that looked too heavy for her thin neck. A Viscount Easton, who had brought his adolescent son and daughter, and an elderly couple, the Richmonds, whose two daughters gave Annabelle’s blue dress a sweeping glance of pity.
Matters did not improve in the dining hall. She was seated at the nether end of the table across from the young Easton siblings. Montgomery was at the other end, the guest of honor to Lady Lingham’s right. His blond hair flashed in the periphery of Annabelle’s vision whenever he attentively leaned closer to the countess.
Peter Humphrys lifted the metal cup next to his wineglass to his nose and inhaled. “Mint julep,” he announced, and happily smacked his lips. “Careful, miss. This cocktail contains a hearty dash of bourbon.”
She picked up her cup. It was cold to the touch and the contents smelled like peppermint.
At the far end of the table, Lady Lingham’s tinkling laugh said the countess was having a fabulous time. They looked good together, she and Montgomery. Toothy or not, she was the female to his male, equally austere, refined, inscrutable; they were the Adam and Eve of the aristocracy.
Annabelle’s hesitant nip of mint julep quickly turned into a hearty sip. Icy sweetness trickled down her throat, treacherous because she couldn’t taste even a trace of liqueur. Perfect.
“Do the flora of Wiltshire differ much from what you observe in Kent?” asked Peter Humphrys.
“I’m not sure.