Mari laughed and hugged her friend. “He has not tormented you on a daily basis. The man is insufferably arrogant, so do not go falling for those good looks of his.”
She strode into the hall, not seeing the thoughtful expression on Maddie’s face.
Guests crowded every room of Lord Tindale’s upper floor when Mari and Maddie arrived with Aunt Agnes and Jamie in tow. The debutantes were a swirl of pastel colors while the matrons wore darker hues of burgundy, navy and grey. The gentlemen contrasted nicely in black superfine topcoats, snowy cravats and colorful waistcoats. Mari nearly clapped her hands in excitement at the swirl of activity.
The din of noise diminished as the butler announced them. An actual hush fell as Jamie stepped forward. He wore black trousers and topcoat, but the cravat and waistcoat had been replaced by a linen shirt and the MacLeod sash crossing his chest.
Mari held her breath. They’d had quite a row over what Jamie was to wear. He’d wanted to wear his kilt—Mari could just imagine the matrons swooning at exposed calves—and very muscular ones at that. She had finally convinced him it would be better to accept more conventional dress, but Jamie adamantly refused to wear a cravat—a cloth he referred to as a neck-strangler—and been equally stubborn about the sash.
Would thetonaccept him?
Apparently, Society would if the interested looks of the mamas were any clue, although Mari noticed most of those gazes were centered on Jamie’s bare, bronzed neck and the top of his collarbones where the shirt’s top button was open. The younger girls edged toward him, slipping away from their spellbound chaperones.
“I told you,” Maddie whispered as a group of giggling girls invaded the space around Jamie. Mari found herself crowded out and practically pushed aside.
“Do let’s find the punch,” Maddie said, grasping her arm.
Mari let herself be led across the room, looking back once to find Jamie engaged in conversation with Violetta and Amelia. Both of them were fluttering their fans so quickly, Mari was surprised they did not squelch the candle flames on nearby tables. Jamie was grinning at whatever those two were saying. Good heavens. Could he actually be interested in those little gossips?
Well, wasn’t this what she wanted? Mari tossed her head slightly so her curls would float gently about her face and smiled at the young man near the punch bowl. He gave her a slight bow and moved away. Someone called Maddie’s name, and she excused herself.
Mari helped herself to punch and stood to the side, surveying the room. Yancy Newell and Nevin Faulkner were not far away, but both of them were glowering in Jamie’s general direction. Probably not surprising, since Yancy had escorted Amelia to some daytime events last spring and Nevin had done the same with Violetta.
“Excuse me.”
Mari turned to find Abigail Townsend, the Earl of Sherrington’s daughter, standing beside her. The girl was several years older and seemed resigned to spinsterhood with the drab-colored gowns she wore and her brown hair pulled severely back, but she had always been friendly if a little shy.
“Isn’t thissoireethe perfect start for the Little Season?” Mari asked.
Abigail pushed her spectacles up on the bridge of her nose and surveyed the room with a serious expression. “I suppose,” she said without much conviction. “I do not care for crowds, but Papa makes me attend.”
How could anyone not enjoy all this activity? Mari wanted to open her arms wide and embrace the noise, hustle and bustle. Parties were the very heart of Society. “But you must be interested in who is available for the Marriage Mart?”
Abigail shrugged. “I am a bit long in the tooth. I doubt a man would be interested in me.”
Mari was shocked at her candor. Abigail might be close to being put on the shelf, but did she believe the stories of her mother’s numerous liaisons—before she mysteriously died—would be laid on her daughter’s head?
“Do not be a ninnyhammer, Abigail. I am sure any number of bachelors would be glad to marry you.” Perhaps Maddie and she could help Abigail pick somewhat more fashionable clothes and arrange her hair more attractively. She was not truly unattractive. She just looked like a bluestocking.
“You are kind,” Abigail said and then noticed her father waving at her. “Excuse me. I must see what Papa wants.”
“Certainly.”
Several of the girls who had initially surrounded Jamie approached the punch table, apparently having given up temporary hope of besting either Amelia or Violetta. Mari greeted them warmly only to receive polite responses from two or three while the rest said nothing at all. All of them moved off once they’d filled their cups and soon mingled with the other eligible gentlemen.
No one else approached her, although Lady Tindale did stop to inquire if she were having a good time. She stammered that she was, thanking her for the invitation.
Mari slowly made her way through the throngs in search of Maddie. The matrons to whom she said hello only politely nodded. She spotted Maddie then but stopped abruptly since her friend was talking to Jamie. Mari noted the poutish looks on the other two girls’ faces. Maddie was no doubt rescuing Jamie from them.
Mari turned back to the crush of people. The glamorous glitter of the evening had worn off. She had expected to be gaily laughing and flirting with several—or at least one—young man, but no one seemed to notice her. The debutantes looked away as Mari passed by. A matron actually turned her back as Mari neared the French doors leading to the veranda.
She suddenly felt as though she had swallowed a lead brick. Embarrassment flooded through her as her stomach twisted and nausea hit her. She stepped quickly through the door, gulping as the cool night air embraced her flaming face.
How could she have been so stupid?
She was being given the cut direct. And it hurt.
