It was a silent, damning rejection, far more poignant than any shouted accusation. He loathed the insidious rules of polite society, but he worked to obey them. He would play the game, but only if it benefited him.
“Did you see her gown? So terribly plain.” A debutante giggled, eyeing Lady Inverhall’s modest green dress. “Hardly the fashion for a marchioness, even if she is a dowager. Quite a bore for someone who is supposed to be so exotic!”
“I heard that the old Marquess drank all their money away,” another young woman whispered to her. “She is as poor as a pauper—comes from a small village. She has no money of her own, no real connections.”
“Oh my, however did you get that delicious tidbit of gossip?”
“I have a cousin in Edinburgh with whom I often correspond. In her most recent letter, she mentioned a strange Scottish marchioness who was making her way to London! She has all the news from the north. You know I am well-connected, dear friend.”
“Oh my, that is insightful, Mary!” the debutante gushed.
Hugo listened for a few more moments before tuning them out, especially when the conversation shifted to frilly ribbons and floral fabrics. He was surprised that even the ladies, eager to scrutinize a newcomer, took such perverse pleasure in slandering Lady Inverhall. It was obscene how they talked about her.
He saw her then, noting that she had likely heard at least a snippet of their conversation.
He watched her cheeks redden, as deep as an apple. She shifted uncomfortably amid the crowd, looking up at the clouds above. He wondered if she was conjuring rain, hoping to bring a tumultuous end to the day’s events.
Another lady chimed in suddenly, bringing the conversation back to her, “And her hair! With wildflowers braided in, as if she had just tumbled out of a hedgerow!”
Their laughter carried across the manicured lawn. Lady Inverhall, though pretending not to hear, stiffened before she walked away into a secluded topiary garden.
Hugo’s frustration simmered, a low boil in his gut as he wondered what to do. A part of him wanted to wipe the smirks off the ladies’ faces, the other damned Lady Inverhall for making it too damn easy.
This was not going to be as simple as he had thought.
Whatever will I do with the lass?
He looked at his pocket watch and groaned. The party would last for at least two more hours. Unless they decided to make an abrupt and early exit, which would only draw more attention to them. Hugo quickly decided that was something he did not need.
He looked around for a familiar face before finally settling on Aaron’s young cousin, Miss Sybil Longchamp.
“Is that you, Miss Longchamp?” he asked as he walked over to her tentatively.
“Oh my, Your Grace! I wish my cousin were here to see you. Unfortunately, I have been dragged here by my father. He thinks I need to get used to polite society, but I am bored to tears!”
“How old are you now?”
“Seventeen, Your Grace.”
“Well, you are getting on in your years then. Tell me, how would you like to meet a real Scottish lass?”
“Oh, yes! That would be exciting!”
Hugo waved to Lady Inverhall, with whom he had made eye contact as she sauntered out of the topiary gardens.
She looked behind her before making a gesture of disbelief, as if asking,Me?
He shook his head in frustration as she finally began walking toward him, earning a laugh from Sybil.
“I have someone I would like you to meet, Lady Inverhall,” he said with a smile.
“I have no interest in talkin’ to another bloody?—”
“This is Miss Sybil Longchamp, Lord Sarford’s cousin,” he cut in, then turned to Sybil. “Miss Longchamp, this is the Dowager Marchioness of Inverhall.”
“Good afternoon, Lady Inverhall,” Sybil greeted with a curtsey. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I have always wanted to meet a real Scottish lady, especially after reading so much about them inThe Highland Holiday.”
“Miss Longchamp,” Hugo commented, “it astonishes me that your parents allowed that sort of drivel under their roof.”
