Meg shrugged. “He’s not wrong.”
“Not only is he wrong,” Tamsin disagreed. “But he’ll eat those words.”
“It doesn’t matter. They say it every year.”
Tamsin narrowed her eyes. “And last year you said you’d make a pie from his kidneys.”
Meg wrinkled her nose. “It sounds like a lot of bother.”
“Not a bit. I’ll make the pastry.”
“Like you know how to cook,” Priya said.
“I’m sure I can!” Tamsin said hotly. “I can make….” She trailed off before laughing. “All right, perhaps not.” She grinned. “I might not be able to bake pies, but I wager I’m perfectly capable of poking him in the kidneys with a sharp stick. My father’s chef is forever going on about the tenderness of meat and how important it is. And he’s French. He ought to know.”
“My, we do descend into cannibalism quicker and quicker every year,” Meg laughed. “Don’t fret, Tam. I don’t want to marry any of those men, nor do I particularly want to eat kidneys.”
“Oh, very well.”
“You do sound disappointed.”
“I like acquiring new skills.”
They shared a chuckle as the men continued to shout and wager at their expense. It didn’t matter, not when she could laugh about it while crouched in the rosebushes with two of her favorite people. She would paint them like this, white roses all around, golden light at the window.
And cold rain.
The first drop landed on her nose.
“Blast,” Tamsin said just as the autumn skies opened over them. “Not again.”
Dougal had alwaysassumed the aristocracy were a flock of lunatics, but he’d never expected to have it confirmed quite so spectacularly. They danced, they gambled, they drank too much wine that tasted like cake.
And apparently, they stole almonds.
Though to be fair, theft notwithstanding, The Splendid Miss Swift seemed the least insane of the lot. She wasn’t beautiful the way her friend Tamsin was, with bright curls and a creamy complexion, but Meg was pretty in a quiet way that snuck up on you and threatened to clobber you over the head if you weren’t careful. Much like the lady might, he imagined. He’d been a duke for a few months now and she was the first lady to hold his interest. Scratch that. The first person entirely. She had secrets, that one. He didn’t know how no one else could see it. They were taken in by that quiet loveliness, the soft manners.
And she would be in his house for the next few weeks.
He had half a mind to send Pendleton a thank you gift. What did these folks send each other when they already had everything? Fruit baskets? Pet ferrets?
His gaze followed Meg around the room without conscious volition, as if he couldn’t help himself. She laughed with her friends, stopped to eat a teacake smothered with frosting an alarming shade of blue, and then danced with an elderly gentleman. Her dress was exquisitely embroidered but he noticed the thin spots where the fabric was wearing through. He’d seen them enough on his own clothing, while growing up. And his sister had done the same—attempting creative mending to camouflage the defects. But never with such style. He couldn’t understand why everyone treated Meg like a sparrow when she was clearly a flame-red cardinal.
Too much wine, not enough sense, the lot of them.
Proven dismally true at this very moment where he somehow found himself in a parlor papered with yellow silk, shoulder to shoulder with a dozen gentlemen. He had no idea how he’d gotten here but that was becoming a common problem lately. When his father used to brag that they had fancy relations, he’d always laughed it off. Fancy relations didn’t mean anything at the mill, and it didn’t get food into their mouths.
Until it did.
On painted china plates and gold forks.
Inwardly squirming, he turned his attention back to the over-decorated room stinking of wine, perfume, and stolen cheroots. He’d kill for a pint and a walk around Manchester when it was so late there was no one but himself and the stars and the occasional cat. But this was his life now.
Meg suddenly made it seem a little less uncomfortable.
A little more interesting.
She stared at him from a portrait set up on a table under the window. Her brown hair was looped up in braids like a coronet. Her smile was crooked, charming. Exactly right. Next to her was a painting of Lady Tamsin Bell with her fire-hair and her big laugh, Lady Priya Langdon with her piercing black eyes. There were other ladies he did not recognize, all painted perfectly, wearing pearls and diamonds and the kinds of soft complexions only afforded to those who carried parasols and slept through the day in order to dance through the night.