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If she tossed the chicken in just the right way, with a flick of her wrist, the bone should land right in the center of Beatrice’s forehead. What sort of nitwit was Beatrice to suggest Romy had deliberately gone into the woods in the hopes Granby would decide she needed rescue and come looking for her? The timing alone would take far more patience than Romy possessed.
Dabbing at her lips with a napkin, Romy set the remainder of the chicken on her plate. Lady Molsin might object to having one of her guests pelt the other with a chicken bone.
“I do like to sketch.” Less than fifteen minutes in Beatrice’s company and already Romy had reached her limit.
“That is my understanding,” Beatrice answered.
Romy looked away. Part of her wished she could shake Beatrice and ask if her presence was the result of Granby or because she’d somehow, impossibly, figured out Romy was secretly designing gowns for Madame Dupree. She didn’t really want the answer to either question.
She’d had quite enough of Beatrice.
Granby had joined Estwood and Haven, towering over both his friends and stealing a piece of fruit from Haven’s plate. He looked in her direction, his gaze passing over Romy as if she were merely part of the landscape.
And more than her fill of Granby as well.
“Won’t you excuse me?” Romy balanced her plate on one hand and stood, holding on to her skirts, deliberately leaving her parasol. She cast an apologetic look at Lucy for deserting her. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
Beatrice waved. “Don’t get lost lest we be forced to leave without you.”
Romy bit back her reply. After handing a footman her plate, she started out across the expanse of grass, glad now, after Beatrice’s odd comments, that she hadn’t brought her small notepad with her.
