Page 40 of The Highlander Is All That

Chapter Nine

“Is she going to be all right?” Catherine’s voice floated to Elizabeth from afar.

“Is she dying?” Ah. Mary was there as well.

Someone dabbed a cool cloth to her forehead. It was heavenly.

“Elizabeth. Dear. Can you hear me?” Presumably that was Catherine, patting her hand.

“Mmm.”

“Oh, her lashes are flickering. She’s not dead.” Why did Mary seem . . . disappointed?

“Did she really retch in front of Twiggenberry?” Victoria asked.

“On him.” For once, Anne sounded amused.

“It was the pomade,” Elizabeth said, but it came out garbled and it was unlikely they understood. No matter. It hadn’t been the pomade, although that hadn’t helped. It had been the prospect. The horrifying prospect of waking up every morning for the rest of her natural life to see that face, to suffer those wormlike lips on hers . . . to have to learn to stomach that smell.

“She said something.”

Well, hell. Hamish was here too. How mortifying. She groaned and covered her face with her arm, but somehow that didn’t make him go away.

“Perhaps she needs some tea?” Oh, Esmeralda and her tea.

“Perhaps she needs a nip of something stronger.” Hamish had the right of it. She was not one to imbibe in spirits, but a little oblivion about now would be wonderful.

“We are not giving her whisky,” Esmeralda barked. “That will only come back up.”

“You don’t suppose she’s ill, do you?” Mary again.

Oh, she was.

“She had kippers at nuncheon,” Anne said. “Perhaps they were bad?”

“I had kippers too.” Victoria sniffed. “You don’t see me vomiting on earls.”

Esmeralda tsked. “Language, please.”

“Vomit is a word.”

“It is a vulgar word.”

“Do you suppose she’s too ill to go shopping this afternoon?” Mary asked in a maudlin tone.

Victoria sniffed. “No one is ever too ill for shopping.”

“Do you suppose she’s too ill to attend the ball tonight?” Anne sounded far too hopeful. “Perhaps I should stay home with her.”

“You are going to the ball, young lady. It is high time you found a husband.”

“Masquerades are singularly unhelpful in finding husbands on account of the fact that the men in question are in disguise.”

“Nevertheless. You are going.”

Elizabeth steeled herself and forced open a lid. Six faces peered down at her, but only one captured her attention. He looked so concerned, it made her heart leap.

She’d just thrown up on a lord and swooned, two things she rarely, if ever, did. Of course he was concerned. It couldn’t be anything else. Could it?