proceeded to ignore her and struck up a conversation with Aunt Agnes. Margaret allowed herself the small victory. She had perfected the ability to become invisible by adopting an excessively reserved demeanor. Such a thing came in handy when dealing with the Winthrops of the world.
Another whiff of talc met her nose.
She found nothing even remotely appealing in Winthrop’s appearance, even overlooking the sweating and the smell of powder. Narrow shoulders sat atop a thickened waist and rounded bottom, reminding Margaret of a pear. Ham-fisted, Winthrop’s hands were often clammy. The damp feel of his fingers was noticeable even beneath the costly gloves he wore. He also favored what Margaret considered to be rather dainty shoes instead of boots, which looked ridiculous for he had rather large, duck-like feet.
No. Winthrop would not do at all.
“Miss Lainscott?” Winthrop interrupted her reflections of his person, suddenly reminded of her presence. “Would you care to take a turn about the terrace with me?”
And endure the smell of your pomade? It’s nearly worse than your conversation skills.
“I don’t—”
“Of course she would,” her aunt said, interceding before Margaret could decline. “Margaret could benefit from some fresh air.” Aunt Agnes fluttered her fan toward the doors. “I must see to my guests, but I leave my niece in your capable hands.”
Could her aunt be any more obvious? Margaret had to keep herself from voicing a strident objection to being forced into Winthrop’s company. But if she dared make the slightest protest, her aunt would punish her.
“Enjoy yourself.” Aunt Agnes smiled indulgently, giving Margaret a pinch to the arm before fluttering off in a whirl of dark purple skirts, the large turban atop her head tilting at a dangerous angle.
Margaret stared at the turban, silently commanding the headdress to topple off her aunt’s head and roll across the marble floor, shocking the crowd of guests and exposing the bald head Margaret was sure lay beneath. No one wore turbans and hadn’t for at least twenty years. Not unless they had to.
Lord Winthrop’s giant paw took Margaret’s hand and placed her fingers on his forearm. “Shall we?” He nodded down at her, sweat glistening on his forehead.
There was no escape.
Steering Margaret expertly through the crush, Lord Winthrop guided her to a set of tall French doors and out into the blissfully cool terrace. A breeze gently buffeted her face as she looked out into the gardens. The strains of the orchestra filtered through the open doors and Margaret swayed in time with the music, mentally wincing as she heard one of the violins hit a wrong note. No one would likely notice but her.
Music was the only thing which kept her sane during events such as these. Whenever she heard music, the sound of each instrument filled her mind with a swirl of colors which in turn formed themselves into notes. The notes would intertwine and split to become a melody, while her fingers itched for a pen to write everything down. She had a special book for such things, large and shaped like a ledger one might use for household accounts. It had been a gift from her father several years ago when Margaret had studied music with Mr. Strauss, her neighbor in Yorkshire. The elderly Austrian gentleman had once been a composer of some renown on the Continent before coming to England to live with his daughter.
Winthrop propelled her in the direction of a stone bench at the edge of the terrace, annoying her with his presence and his sweating. Margaret found herself praying for a plague of locusts or some other more welcome rescue.
“We can dance later if you like.” He’d apparently seen her moving in time to the music and had mistaken it for an invitation.
Margaret’s eyes slid down Lord Winthrop’s oddly shaped form. The very thought of being clasped to him while dancing a waltz was abhorrent. And he was still sweating profusely; surely that couldn’t be normal. She kept her eyes down, pretending to be too timid to reply.
An exasperated sigh left him, just as she’d expected. Perhaps if she bored him, he would simply go away.
“Your aunt has given me leave to call on you.” Lord Winthrop nodded for her to sit. “I shall come tomorrow.”
Good Lord. Winthrop was going to court her.
If she didn’t want to be stuck with the repugnant earl, Margaret had best choose a gentleman herself. And quickly. The combination of title and stupid should be easy to find within the ton. She just hadn’t tried hard