curly at the top and drawn into a pony-tail behind. His face was also powdered, a garish white, which clashed with the gold and pink brocade coat he wore over breeches of the same colour. While tonight he looked ridiculous, Mary did not doubt that at least fifty years ago he would have been regarded as a fashionable dandy.
"Hush," Mrs Mifford whispered, casting them both a glare, "I won't listen to you making fun of our dear Lord Crabb."
Dear Lord Crabb?
Mary blinked in confusion at this term of endearment, for her Mama found the viscount as cantankerous as everyone else. Though Lord Crabb had bestowed the living of Plumpton upon his niece's husband, he had only done so to vex his brother, who had wished to forbid the union. There was very little familial affection between uncle and niece. In fact, the only times that Lord Crabb appeared happy in the Miffords' company were those when he retold the tale of how he had undermined his own brother's authority, which, decades later, still gave him great satisfaction.
"Come," Mrs Mifford said, firmly, "We must offer our greetings to your sweet great-uncle."
Something was amiss, Mary thought, as her mother frogmarched them all toward the viscount. Mrs Mifford had a smile affixed to her face, though it was so forced that Mary could see the muscles twitching in her jaw.
"Uncle," Mrs Mifford cried gaily as they reached the viscount, "How lovely to see you."
"Balderdash," Lord Crabb wheezed, "You are not happy to see me; you're only happy that I might serve to introduce you to Northcott."
"Uncle," Mrs Mifford held a gloved hand to her heart, as though wounded, "How can you say such a thing when Northcott has not even arrived?"
Lord Crabb did not have a chance to reply, for a ripple of whispers went through the room, and every head turned toward the door. Northcott, resplendent in a dark coat and trousers, stood surveying the room with his cool, blue eyes. Beside him stood a lady of middling years, in a deep ruby gown, of material so lush that Mary felt a strong urge to rush over and stroke it.
"Northcott," Mrs Mifford breathed, before turning to Lord Crabb and offering him a sickly sweet smile, "Well, seeing as though he is here, it would be rude of me not to allow you to introduce us."
Mary had to give her mama credit for her audacious scheming; she had known that as social equals, it was expected that Northcott would seek out the company of the viscount. Indeed, the duke gave a rather alarmed look around the assembled citizens of Plumpton, before he spotted Lord Crabb and relief washed over his face. With a rigid back, the duke began to make his way over to the viscount and the Miffords, with his companion on his arm.
"Northcott."
Lord Crabb rose, creakily, to his feet to greet him.
"Lord Crabb," the duke replied formally, as though they were at court, "Allow me to introduce my mother, Her Grace, Cecilia, Duchess of Northcott."
Mary had guessed that the woman was Northcott's mother, given her age and the similarity of their colouring, but nevertheless, she felt a slight thrill to realise she was definitely in the company of a duchess. With surreptitious eyes, Mary assessed the duchess' clothing, hair, and jewellery--all tastefully elegant, yet obviously expensive--as well as her comportment, which was regal and proud. Never in her life had Mary seen one with as rigidly straight posture as Her Grace, and she hastily squared her own shoulders in reply.
Once Northcott had introduced Lord Crabb, it was Lord Crabb's turn to introduce his own extended family, albeit with a show of reluctance. Once he had introduced Mr and Mrs Mifford, he gave a loud sigh and turned to the four sisters and waved a hand at them.
"My great-nieces," he grumbled, "Miss Mifford, Miss Jane Mifford, Miss Emily Mifford, and Miss Eudora Mifford."
"My, my," Her Grace blinked, "Four girls in one house."
"Five if you include the cat," Mr Mifford replied, with a wince of suffering, "Though I try not to."
Mary saw Northcott's lips twitch in amusement, and a giddy thrill went through her, which she tried desperately to quash. It would not do to develop a fanciful longing for His Grace, for she had as much a chance of capturing his attention as she did of capturing Prinny's.
And, she reminded herself sternly, you don't like men anymore; you are a spinster.
Still, despite her inner protests, when Northcott's blue eyes caught hers as