RELEASING MAY 28, 2014
In this scene, Adaira accidentally overhears Roark’s dinner guests talking about her.
Fierce whispering under the other arched staircase brought her up short. Should she continue or return to her room? Or make a great deal of noise? She grinned. The latter ought to do it. She turned, then halted mid-step.
“She locked him in a dungeon? For three days?” a high-pitched, outraged female voice asked.
“Yes, but it was a case of mistaken identification. So I was told by my abigail, who heard it from one of Lord Clarendon’s housemaid, who heard it from his lordship’s valet,” another female replied.
A bored male voice entered the conversation. “How can you be certain it’s true? Most likely nothing but servant tattle.”
“Oh no, Sawyer,” the second female denied. “We were boarding the carriage to return to the mansion this afternoon, and my Trask found he was without his cane. He’d left it propped against a tree in the grove of oaks, you see.”
There was the sound of rustling clothing before she continued. “While fetching the cane, he overhead Lord Ramsbury. He and Lord Clarendon were on the other side of the trees. Ramsbury teased Clarendon about Miss Ferguson getting into another scrape. Lord Clarendon laughed and said, ‘At least she didn’t lock me in a dungeon for three days this time.’”
“I’ve no idea, except her half-brother is Viscount Sethwick.” Squeaky woman again. “After her behavior at the lake, I’m quite convinced she’s an incorrigible tart.”
“I don’t believe she was wearing a chemise. Did you see the way her gown clung to her?” snooty lady two asked.
“Scandalous, I tell you. Whatever is Lord Clarendon thinking, inviting those uncouth Scots to his house party?” sniffed the first woman.
Uncouth Scots? She’d show them an uncouth Scot.
Pressing her lips together, Adaira clenched her fan, wishing she possessed her crop.
“I quite liked the gown. . .” Sawyer started to drawl.
“Sawyer!”
Adaira heard the unmistakable whump of a person being smacked.
“Let me assure you, Helene will hear of this,” lady two declared.
“Is that necessary, Lady Bradford?” Sir Nasal said. “She’ll get her back up. You know how she is when in a froth.”
“Sir Oliver, you know full well she’s been waiting for Clarendon to propose for nigh on a year,” Lady Bradford scolded.
“He couldn’t very well do so earlier as he was mourning his wife and child,” the first lady offered sagely.
Her voice grated along Adaira’s brittle nerves.
“Helene’s my dearest friend, and it’s beyond the pale. I cannot in good conscience keep this from her,” Lady Bradford said. “She won’t be happy he’s brought a chit of questionable standing into her future home. No indeed. Helene fully anticipates Lord Clarendon will declare himself. Perhaps this very evening, so an announcement can be made at the ball tomorrow.”
The blood singing in Adair’s veins transformed to a gloomy dirge. Lord Clarendon was a widower and he’d lost a child? How tragic. He was much too young to have suffered such sorrow.
And he intended to marry Mrs. Winthrop?
Adaira’s vision blurred, and she blinked rapidly. They’d make a brilliant match. The widow was the perfect example of haut ton desirability. Cultured, well-spoken, and the epitome of feminine delicacy, fashion, and grace. Not to mention perfectly rounded in all the places a man desired. Precisely the type of woman he’d take to wife.
Not a slender one that chews straw, rides astride, and wears breeches.
A queer ache pinged near the vicinity of Adaira’s heart. Absurd. It was of no import to her. It was her compassion causing her eyes to tear. Nothing else.
She edged closer to the balustrade. The gossipmonger’s faces and upper bodies were concealed by the stairs. Why weren’t they with the rest of the guests in the drawing room? Had they just arrived? Craning her neck, she saw Westbrook bidding new arrivals welcome at the entrance.
Returning her attention to the chinwags, she tried to identify them. The men wore almost identical garb. Black breeches and shoes with white stockings. No clue there.
The women were a different story altogether. One woman’s dress was a travesty of excessive green ruffles, flowers, ribbons, and bows. And that was only from her knees down. Adaira half expected vine shoots to sprout from the skirts and begin creeping along the staircase. The other woman’s gown was elegant in its simplicity. A shimmering champagne color with a gossamer overskirt in the same shade, it screeched sophistication.
The voices faded as the gossips moved away, their shoes clicking on the marble floor.
Lady Bradford’s last words rang in Adaira’s ears.
“You don’t suppose the little upstart has designs on his lordship? Helene will be furious, I can tell you.”
~~
Don’t you just itch to smack Lady Bradford? I know I do.
