That she had a ghastly drinking problem might be one of her lesser challenges, though.
“Mr. Vance?” she said, holding up her empty glass.
He sighed and motioned to a footman. As the footman was employed by the lady’s family, the young man did not seem too surprised at the rapidity of the request.
“Now, as I was saying earlier,” Miss Rightstone said, “I simply can’t abide an over-reserved and haughty manner. It grates on me, Mr. Vance. Positively grates.”
“I see,” Harry answered noncommittally. He had no idea who had got on Miss Rightstone’s nerves this time, but she was generally irritated by two classes of people. One, those females who might be perceived as more attractive, and two, those gentlemen who did not give her what she considered her due.
“I mean really,” she said, draining her glass, “who does she think she is? Does she think she is better than me because she is an earl’s daughter? My mama says she is poor as a church mouse. And then of course, the hair. A very bold sort of color, far too red. And she dares look superior because…well I really do not know why. It grates, Mr. Vance. Positively grates.”
As this diatribe went forward, it became clear that Miss Rightstone was directing her vitriol at Lady Isabel. The audacity of the lady! Lady Isabel was far superior to Miss Rightstone. She was far superior to every lady.
“I will get you another glass of wine, Miss Rightstone,” he said in a grim tone. “I suspect you are going to need it.”
Miss Rightstone, who paid so little attention to anybody else’s changing tones and demeanors, only said, “Yes, do.”
After the footman had filled her glass for a third time, Harry said, “Miss Rightstone, I have recently been informed by the duchess that she has encouraged you in the idea that there may be a match between us. I—”
“Oh yes, she has been very determined about it,” Miss Rightstone said, cutting him off. “But I warn you, Mr. Vance, I have not absolutely decided.”
“There is nothing to decide,” Harry said firmly. “The duchess has experienced a flight of fancy and attempted to make it fact.”
“Nonsense,” Miss Rightstone said, draining her glass and snapping her fingers for the footman to bring more wine. “My mama says the very same thing about it.”
“Because she has been told it by the duchess,” Harry said. “I am sorry that the duchess has inconvenienced you in such a manner, but the lady has never bothered to consultme. There is no match. We would not suit at all.”
Miss Rightstone’s features darkened dangerously. Harry had once seen her throw a wine glass at the head of a gentleman who took another lady into supper rather than her. Fortunately, it had missed the gentleman and hit the wall behind him. The viscountess had put it about that the stem of the glass had soap remaining on it and had slipped out of her daughter’s hand. If that were so, it had been quite the energetic and hurling slip. He began to fear that a similar hurling might occur now.
“How dare you?” Miss Rightstone said. “You are a lowly…what? You’ll only become a baron and your grandfather was in trade. Who do you think you are to be too good for a viscount’s daughter? As it happens, I would never have lowered myself to accept you.”
“We have a meeting of the minds, then,” Harry said. “I happen to know that the duchess is busy finding someone more suitable for you than a lowly baron.”
Miss Rightstone’s ever changing moods took another turn. “Who? Who does she think?”
“I am not certain she knows yet.”
In a guttural tone, she said, “He’d better be a marquess at least!”
“No doubt.”
The next hour was spent trying to slow Miss Rightstone’s drinking while she spoke of how it was sure to be a marquess, how Ryland would have been ideal had he not gone off and married some irritating lady, how Lymington might do if he would only shut up about his horses, how her looks were the superior of the season, and how grating this or that lady was.
When she rose after it was finally over, she would have fallen to the floor had Harry not caught her arm and held her up.
Later, the duchess cornered him and said, “Did you say something to her? Does she know of your unaccountable recalcitrance?”
“I did and she does,” Harry said cheerfully. “My advice is, take the fan away, tell her to stop criticizing other ladies, and make the footmen cut off her wine.”
He bowed and left the duchess to consider those pieces of advice.
*
Isabel’s riding habithad been delivered. It was so lovely, a very dark green with marvelous pewter buttons. Her old habit had been a birthday gift from a generous neighbor and had been worn for many years, it had more patches and mending than anything else and did not fit her very well anymore. This was fresh and new and perfectly cut. It was wonderful.
She and the duchess had slept in very late this day and were to go riding in the park in the late afternoon. To her surprise, the duchess would take a horse too. In Isabel’s own neighborhood, the matrons preferred the comforts of a carriage. But then, she supposed the duchess was no ordinary matron.
It was still too early to go, and Isabel sat in the drawing room with a book from the duchess’ surprising collection. It was a gothic novel about a poor young woman named Annabelle who was trapped in a castle by a man who might be a murderer or a savior. Isabel was at a loss as to why Annabelle went there in the first place and why she had not taken the rather numerous opportunities to escape. She was afraid that she would have little sympathy for the lady if she met a bad end, which certainly could not be the author’s intent.
