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Cringlewood flipped open his snuffbox and extracted a pinch with a bored air. “One of your tender years cannot be expected to sort through the niceties of polite society, dear boy. I’d be happy to tell you and your parents all about the Kendricks.” He leaned closer, as if sharing a confidence. “Highlanders. Barely civilized.” His gaze suddenly darted toward Graeme, gleaming with malice. “And I’ve got the scars to prove it.”
Graeme considered living up to that barely civilized accusation by tossing the moronic marquess out the nearest window. But Cringlewood was obviously hoping to cause a scene, and seek the only kind of revenge he could at the moment—social revenge—against Royal and Ainsley.
Graeme wouldn’t play that game.
“I’m half-Scottish, my lord,” Sabrina said, coolly polite. “My beloved mother was born in the Highlands.”
Cringlewood momentarily froze, but quickly regrouped. “Fortunately, your dear mother had the excellent sense to marry an Englishman, Lady Sabrina. And your esteemed father, I believe, is not fond of Scotland. A man of excellent sense, Lord Musgrave.”
Sabrina gave a shrug, her shoulders as silky and smooth as her shimmering ivory gown. “My godfather—that would be the king—would not agree. He’s quite mad for Scotland. He’s considering a visit to Edinburgh in the near future.”
The marquess lost his smarmy smile when he realized he was losing the battle.
“Careful, old man,” Graeme said. “Your irritation is showing.”
Reggie covered his mouth, as if to smother a laugh.
“Visiting Edinburgh would be sadly unwise of His Majesty, since the Scots are hardly loyal subjects of the Crown. Always dreaming of rebellion and their glorious past.” Cringlewood sneered with contempt.
Graeme laughed. “It’s the nineteenth century. We’ve been loyal to king and country for decades.”
Mostly.His grandfather, for one, wouldn’t be averse to giving old King Georgie a shove into a cold loch.
“Any talk of rebellion is spoken only by fools,” Graeme added.
“Did you just call me a fool, Kendrick?” the marquess demanded.
Sabrina tapped Graeme’s arm with her fan. “I do believe our waltz is beginning, sir.”
She rose, forcing Cringlewood to do the same. The marquess loomed over her, radiating repressed rage as Graeme took her hand.
Reggie cast a troubled glance at Sabrina.
“Is something amiss, my lord?” she asked Cringlewood with chilly courtesy.
He quickly gathered his manners and flashed an artificial smile. “I’m simply disappointed to lose your company, dear lady. Perhaps you’ll save me a dance?”
Her fingers gripped Graeme’s hand.
“I’m afraid all my dances are spoken for, my lord.”
“With me, for one,” Reggie said with a shy smile. “Don’t forget we’re doing the country dances. If you’re not tired by then, that is.”
She rewarded the young man with a brilliant smile. “I would never be too tired to dance with you, Reggie. And perhaps you can take me down to supper afterward.”
The lad beamed. “Of course. Mamma would be ever so pleased if I escorted you.”
“Of course your mamma will be pleased,” Cringlewood drawled. “Quite the coup for you to secure the most charming guest for supper. You leave the rest of us in the dust, dear boy.”
Reggie’s uneven complexion mottled red in response to the bastard’s sarcastic tone.
“Her ladyship has snagged an excellent supper partner,” Graeme said, winking at Reggie. “Certainly the nicest, which I intend to tell his excellent mother as soon as I see her.”
When the young man flashed a grateful smile, Sabrina squeezed Graeme’s hand before letting go and taking his arm.
“I’ll see you later, Reggie.” She gave Cringlewood a brief nod. “My lord.”
Resisting the impulse to flash his teeth at the fuming marquess, Graeme escorted Sabrina toward the door. Curious gazes and whisperings accompanied them.
