“I believe it was you who mentioned the punch,” she teased.
“Right.” He frowned down at the table for a moment. “If you’re not thirsty, then perhaps you’d agree to a dance?”
Approximately an hour later,Lily had somehow lost track of Bradford and all of her sisters in the merry fray of the ball. She blamed the layout of the house—instead of one large ballroom, the marquess’s house was laid out in the French style, where numerous smaller rooms opened up to one another. It didn’t help that at least fifty more people than could comfortably fit had been invited.
Lily was desperate for some space and air, and she wanted to avoid Lord Rigsby, besides. Though he was twice as bearable now that his attentions seemed to be split between her and Beatrice, Lily vastly preferred when the man had been too intimidated to approach her at all.
Now, he kept popping out of the crowd and asking her to dance. It was difficult to spot him coming due to his diminutive stature and the press of people. Lily had been cornered into dancing with him twice now, and up close, his skin reminded her of a plucked chicken—tacky and malleable.
Lily slipped into the exterior hall and exhaled a gust of relief. She was determined to dally on her way to the ladies’s retiring room. Though the many windows of the hallway weren’t open, it was still cooler, as if the air hadn’t already been breathed by a dozen different people before she had her turn with it. Besides that, it was the first place she’d felt free to walk all evening without having to apologize for bumping someone.
“Pssst.”
Lily stopped and looked about her, frowning. She was alone in the hallway, except for a pair of ladies further down. Theirheads were bent toward each other, and a faint giggle trailed back as they turned the corner.
“Psst.”
Lily retraced her steps and glanced in the open doorway she’d passed. It was a dimly lit, mostly empty room, save for a few tables and crates full of wood shavings. This appeared to be the staging area for the servants—the room where the extra glassware and champagne were stored.
Just as she frowned and went to move back from the doorway, the tablecloth of the nearest table lifted, revealing Margaret underneath.
She beckoned with a gloved hand. “Lily, over here. Hurry so no one sees you.”
Lily gave a cursory glance behind her and, finding no one, stepped into the room and ducked beneath the table. She’d expected to find Margaret in tears, perhaps—why else would she be hiding beneath a table in an empty room at a ball?
But Margaret wasn’t crying, and she wasn’t alone.
Sylvia Barrows waved and smiled, her newly violet hair bouncing with the motion.
Rachel Warrington nodded regally and said, “Good evening.”
“Why on earth are you ladies hiding under here?” Lily asked, eyes wide. “Has something happened?”
“It’s pretty clear why I’m hiding,” Sylvia said, stroking one of her lavender curls.
A couple of weeks ago, Sylvia had accidentally dyed her hair purple. She’d apparently been trying to turn the auburn strands brown and the process had taken a wrong turn down a strange path.
Lily turned to her sister. “And you?”
“I’m confused.” Margaret wrinkled her nose as if she regretted admitting as much.
“Rachel?” Lily prompted, eyebrows raised.
“I never wanted a Season to begin with. I think I’ve put up a valiant effort at pretending to participate, but if I could stay beneath this very table and miss the rest of the thing, I would.” She lifted her chin in a belligerent fashion, as if Lily might argue with her.
“Fair enough,” Lily said.
Though Rachel Warrington was nearly as pretty as her elder sister, Dahlia, there was little chance she’d be married anytime soon. Perhaps a less clever lady might have been flattered and wooed into the domestic endeavor despite herself, but Rachel was sharp as a carpet tack and quite determined to remain unattached.
“Why were you skulking in the hallway?” Rachel asked.
“I bet I know.” Margaret turned to Rachel. “Lord Rigsby finally got the courage to approach her this evening.”
“What’s the matter with that?” Sylvia asked.
“Now, instead of staring at her from across the room, he stares at her from three feet away. It’s much more disconcerting up close.”
Rachel tilted her head. “Have you tried speaking to him about the cannibalistic tribes of New Guinea? That’s what worked for me. Specifically my theories on what such peoples use for sausage casings.”
