Page 61 of The Grand Mistletoe Assembly
“You fool!” someone yelled.
Ruby’s dress clung to her legs, and she felt wet? Drenched in … butter? She tore her eyes from her father to look down at her beautiful, orange satin skirt, now stained dark red, pooled with vegetables in a butter and wine sauce. Instead of the furry mice of her mind, there were limp asparagus and carrots scattered about her.
She raised her eyes to a bewigged footman, his face blanched white. He held an empty tray. Empty because its contents were all over her.
“I’m so sorry, miss. I can’t, I mean, I’m terribly, terribly, terribly sorry,” the footman stammered.
Another footman wearing identical livery appeared at his side, his expression just as horrified.
Ruby examined her skirts. She smelled like … a very good dinner. But not even the most skilled servant could save either the dress or the food. She brushed off a pea that had found its way into the folds of fabric.
She felt the weight of the whole crowd staring at her. She’d rather peel down the top of her dress for a fight than stand here fully clothed, covered in the dinner menu.
Next to her, Corinthian John murmured, “I’ll go find my sister.”
Ruby nodded dumbly, and then felt even more ridiculous standing there alone.
The footman began to babble again.
Ruby held up her hand. “The only way to fix this, sir, is to dump the roast beef on next. That way, my meal will be complete.”
The shocked crowd laughed, and Ruby glanced over to see her could-be father guffawing.
The footman relaxed his shoulders. “May I show you to the ladies’ lounge while you await your …?”
“Sponsors,” Ruby supplied, giving a big smile. She picked a few lucky guests—the rich-looking ones—to eyeball as she announced her need of patrons. “I’m a practitioner of the Sweet Science.”
The footman didn’t show any surprise, though murmurs spread through the onlookers. She risked a look at Daniel Miller, who had resumed his conversation with the two men in uniform. She threw her shoulders back, knowing it would give her the posture of an athlete and not a lady. But this was business, and well, she was covered in butter and vegetables.
* * *
“Are you thoroughly mad?”Roger hissed, while Max did his best to give an elegant gesture to show Ruby Jackson the way to the ladies’ retiring lounge.
Max shoved the now-emptied tray at Roger and whispered, “Take that back to the kitchens, please.”
Ruby Jackson followed his directions, smelling for all the world like roasted parsnips.
“More than a thousand apologies, miss,” Max said as she swept by him.
“A mistake, I’m certain.” She slowed, clearly unsure where to go.
“This way, miss.” He gestured again with his white-gloved hands. Pristine and clean, unlike her gown. He couldn’t imagine what she’d spent on that frock, and he’d utterly ruined it.
His stomach twisted. He’d been so shocked to see her approaching Daniel Miller, to see two incredible fighters, right there, in the flesh, and he’d stopped short, not thinking of what he carried—and what he carried had continued its momentum right onto the sunset-orange gown. It was a wonder she didn’t knock him down right then.
She followed him, holding her dripping skirt off the floor. He was going to need to clean the parquet as well—couldn’t have guests slipping.
“I’ve seen you fight, actually,” Max ventured, peering back at her with an impertinence even he cringed at. “Against Nanny Gent.”
Ruby Jackson studied him with interest. “What you think about that set-to?”
“I think you got a lot of bottom. You took so many wallops, but in the end, you knocked her out. It was impressive.”
“You win any money on me?”
Was she pleased about his admission? About the compliment? “No, my employer wasn’t betting on the women’s fights. He waits for the men.”
Her expression smoothed to one of almost boredom. Probably not the first time she’d heard that. “Next time, tell him to bet on me. And if you do too, you can pay me back for covering me in butter.”
