Page 49 of His Highland Duchess
“And here I am.” Lysander stepped beside Margaret, placed a hand on the small of her back, and gestured to her. “Allow me to introduce my wife. Her Grace, Duchess –”
“Of course!” Lady Brimstone cut over him. She was a large woman with a larger voice and a larger personality than that. “I was hoping to make your acquaintance this evening.”
“As was I,” added Lord Brimstone. He, too, was large in size, but his voice and presence were nothing compared to that of his wife. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.”
“Likewise.”
“Tell me,” Lady Brimstone began with a flourish of her hand. “Are you enjoying yourself, Your Grace?” The question was aimed at Margaret. “I could not help but wonder how such events as this compare to those where you are from.”
“Oh…” Margaret smiled. “Aye, it is a rather lavish event. I am enjoying meself.”
“I would think so,” Lady Brimstone continued with an air of righteousness. “I have never made it as far as Scotland myself. Why would I bother,” she added with laughter.
Margaret felt herself stiffen at the clear jibe; the urge to respond in the only way she knew how. But with Lysander beside her, and her desire to behave, she curbed that notion. “Ye must visit sometime,” she said instead. “The summers are particularly bonnie.”
“Bonnie?” Lord Brimstone chuckled. ‘My, I do love that accent.”
His wife scoffed. “I find it a little hard to understand myself. “Tell me true, and do not lie. At balls such as this, I have been told that sheep roam freely. And men are known to wear those little skirts. I would like to see that.”
“That is nae…” She gritted her teeth, forcing the calm. Beside her, Lysander gripped her arm as if he could sense what she was thinking. “Men do wear kilts, if that is ye meaning,” she corrected, while feeling a little flustered because she sensed that Lady Brimstone was being purposefully rude. “But as to the sheep, that is a lie.”
“A shame,” Lady Brimstone sighed. “It might have made you more interesting at the very least.”
Margaret’s temper flared, and she could not help but respond. “At least I am nae an old, worn out –”
“Lord Brimstone, I suggest you take care of your wife,” Lysander cut in front of her. He was glaring at Lady Brimstone in warning, but he spoke with perfect calm. “It seems to me that she has had far too much to drink.”
“Excuse me!” Lady Brimstone cried. “How dare you.”
She was being entirely too loud, enough that a few people nearby were starting to stare at them.
“Unless I am mistaken,” Lysander continued, oblivious to the eyes. “I was happy to make an excuse for her less than charitable comments concerning my wife and her heritage, but if this is how she is usually, then perhaps I should be apologizing to you.” He raised an eyebrow now at Lord Brimstone. “That you have married a loud-mouthed, obnoxious lady with less manners than the stray dog my good wife recently adopted is surely a reason to feel pity for.”
Lord Brimstone looked about with bewilderment. Flustered and confused, he was caught between defending his wife and not insulting the duke. And beyond him, there were more gasps and a few chuckles from the crowd.
“How dare you,” Lady Brimstone spoke loudly and with bluster. “I will not be spoken to like that in my own home. I do not care who you are.”
“I meant no offense by it,” Lysander said simply. “But surely you understand that where my wife is concerned, there is little I will not do or say to defend her. Even if it means offending your so-called sensibilities.” He offered her a very fake smile. “Forgive me.”
Margaret could not help but beam at him. Her heart swelled with pride. That he would defend her in this way, surely something he would never ordinarily do, spoke volumes about how far they had come and how much he cared for her. Truly, she could not believe it.
“Perhaps I owe an apology,” Lady Brimstone said with a disgruntled pout. She looked Margaret over… her eyes falling south of Margaret’s chin to the nape of her neck. This had her smirking. “You speak of decorum as if it should not be given as well as received. Your Grace, I would ask that you do not undress yourself in front of my guests. Perhaps in the north it is acceptable, but here certain things are expected.”
Margaret frowned. “What da ye…” and then she trailed off when she understood the meaning.
Her eyes widened, and she looked down to find that the shoulder of her dress had once again fallen. Worse, it had drifted so far south that her right chest was threatening to spill from within. It had not, of course, just the lower half of her collar. But if she had left it any longer… Margaret gasped and turned away, mortified. Worse still, those who had been watching continued to gape and even chuckle with mirth at the sight.
“It was nice to see you, Your Grace,” Lady Brimstone tittered, clearly happy that she had gotten in the last jab. “Thank you for coming. Walter!” she snapped at her flabbergasted husband. “Come.”
The two were quick to part without another word spoken as Margaret fumbled with her dress.The shoulder! Why does it refuse to stay up?
“Unbelievable,” Lysander said bitterly. “Lady Brimstone has always been a menace, but I had no idea that she would be so… Margaret? Is something the matter?”
It wasn’t. Not really. But as she fumbled with her dress, unable to keep the shoulder from falling down, she began to notice more people watching. Having overheard Lady Brimstone’s little performance, turning to see the cause, now finding Margaret’s outfit coming undone. Eyes were on her. Whispers heard behind hands. Where she had liked how it felt to be the wife of a duke, the way people had been admiring her with envy, this right here was the other side of the coin.
“I have to go,” she said without thinking. Keeping one hand up to cover herself, she rushed from the ballroom without looking back.
Through the crowd she darted, head down, ignoring those who watched her; likely judging her. She had no idea where to go, stumbling toward the back of the ballroom until she spied a doorway leading to the balcony. It would have to do.
