Page 72 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
“No, sir,” he answered stiffly. “Just one paid to make things clear.”
The cleric had no response except a slow nod and another sympathetic look. She gritted her teeth, doing her best to act appropriate to her status. She smiled her thanks and allowed Mr. Hallowsby to guide her out. But one step outside the church door, her control broke.
“What does he mean?” she demanded. “What do you know?”
He sighed. “Come along. I’ll buy you an ice. It’s damned hot already and not even noon.”
She wanted to dig in her heels, but she knew that wouldn’t work on him. Besides, a queasy feeling was building in her stomach, and perhaps tea would ease it. She let him escort her to the center square. She could tell he’d been to Oxfordshire before, knew where to go, and even nodded politely at a few people.
“Do you know them?” she asked.
“No, but you can tell by their clothing who they are. See the men in black robes like barristers?”
“The bishops?”
“They’re not bishops. They’re the dons, the teachers at Oxford. One nods to them out of respect for their scholarship.”
“I see,” she said as she did exactly that to another of the black-robed men.
“And because they’re a priggish lot who get tetchier than a slighted countess if you don’t.”
“Oh.”
“That’s what you have to know. The dons take themselves very seriously because the boys—as a rule—do not.”
“They’re not boys,” she said, knowing he was thinking of her father. “They’re grown men who have chosen—”
“They’re boys younger than you with much less sense. Worse, they’re often privileged enough to think they can do anything without consequence.” He sighed. “And they’re usually right.”
He guided her around another corner stuffed with people. Her whole village didn’t count this many, and her eyes widened. “Why is that man dressed all in blue?”
“What man? Oh, the boy with the ugly hat?”
He wasn’t a boy. Maybe a man just out of his gangly adolescence, but she didn’t argue. His pants were blue, his shirt and waistcoat blue. Even his coat and hat were dark blue, all of it of fine quality.
“It was the fashion a Season or so ago. He’s out of date by London standards, but Oxfordshire is often behind the times.”
This was fashion? “To dress all in blue?”
“Bottle green was the color before that.”
“Truly?” She never seen a bottle green shirt before.
“Stop looking,” he said. “You can peer about once we’re seated, but you must do it slowly. As if you’ve seen it all before.”
“But I’ve never seen anything like—”
“I know,” he bit out. “That’s the point. If you want to act a lady, then you mustn’t be who you are.” His look was heavy on her face. “Unless you wish to give up this mad scheme, be content as you are, and enjoy a visit to Oxfordshire.”
She frowned. “I am sure ladies enjoy themselves when traveling.”
“Oh, they most certainly do. They just don’t act like they do.”
“But—”
“Good morning, sir, lady,” the innkeeper interrupted.
Together they turned to the man, but it was Mr. Hallowsby who spoke. He requested a table on the square, tea, and ices. Mindful of his instruction, Maybelle tried to look bored, but there was so much to see, including two fine ladies walking together down the street. They carried parasols, had ruffles on their gowns and feathers in their bonnets, and two maids trailed behind them carrying hatboxes. Fine ladies…but neither one of them smiled.
