How the hell had the woman managed to crawl onto the bench beside him? Alasdair grabbed the blasted parasol before it either poked his eye out or flew across the horses’ rumps, in which case they’d be in for a wild ride.
“Lady Melissa Catherine Grace Talbot! You come right down from there this instant.” Her aunt beat her cane sharply against the bench several times. “This instant. Do you hear me?”
For once, Alasdair couldn’t agree more with the elderly lady, except for the continuous whacking of her cane.Thatwas beginning to make his back ache.
He reined the horses to a stop. “I think ye had better listen to your aunt.”
She pouted. “I like sitting up here with you.”
“’Tis nae proper.”
She smiled at him. ‘I do not care about being proper.”
And he wouldn’t care, either, if the woman sitting next to him had been Lorelei, although she’d probably insist on handling the reins and they’d have a sprightly argument. He certainly wouldn’t mind if it were Lorelei who was pressing her leg against his…
The cane thumped against the bench again. “Lady Melissa—”
“Oh, all right.” She flounced down in a whirl of billowing skirts and grabbed her parasol back. “Father would never forgive me if you had an apoplexy right here in front of everyone.”
Alasdair turned to make sure all was well in the back. He didn’t want the old lady to expire either, although from the enthusiastic way she just used her cane, he thought she probably wasn’t close to it. Still, they were beginning to create a spectacle. Something else he wished to avoid. He straightened and lifted the reins, prepared to meet his Fate. And then he blinked.
The carriage in which Lorelei was riding was no longer moving toward them.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps there was a good-hearted faerie looking into things, after all.
…
Mrs. Fitzroy must have invited half of the debutantes that regularly attended Almack’s to her tea on Sunday afternoon. Both the parlor and the more formal sitting room were overflowing with guests.
Lorelei looked around as she, Fiona, and Louisa stood near a marble fireplace—thankfully, not lighted, since the room was already too warm—and held her teacup and saucer in one hand. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to attempt to pick up the cup because her elbow might be jostled by someone in the milling group.
“Are teas always so crowded?” Fiona asked.
“No,” Louisa answered. “I daresay the matrons are attempting a culling of the herd.”
Fiona looked confused. “Like when we decide which sheep to slaughter?”
Louisa’s lips twitched. “Nothing quite that drastic, but it is a good analogy.”
“What she means is that we are halfway through the Season,” Lorelei explained, “and it is time for suitors to start making declarations of courtship.”
Fiona glanced around. “I doona see any men.”
“Not here, of course,” Louisa answered. “What the matrons do now is decide which debutantes get issued invitations for the next round of balls.”
“Our invitations are nae good for all of it?”
“They used to be,” Louisa said. “When Almack’s first opened, there were so many girls coming out that the young men had quite good sport pursuing several at once which, naturally, led to a lot of upset mamas.”
Lorelei grinned. “And furious fathers, I suspect?”
“Quite right.” Louisa nodded. “Last year the matrons came up with the idea to narrow the field, so to speak, so there would be only a limited number of young ladies to choose from.”
“How do the matrons decide who is chosen?” Fiona asked.
“That seems to be a well-kept secret,” Louisa replied. “There does not seem to be any rhyme or reason. Not all of the girls have wealth, although some do have extremely good dowries. Others have fathers who are influential in Parliament—”
“Which is why ye were invited. Your da was prime minister,” Fiona said, “but it doesna explain why Lorelei and I are here.”
