Page 2 of The Lady Needs a Rogue
“Thanwhat, Jon?”
“Than an heiress.” He bit off the word she so despised between his teeth, as if it was as distasteful to him as it was to her.
“Regardless of what Papa—and you, perhaps—may think, I am not a commodity to be bartered for the one and only thing Papa has not been able to buy. I am not one of those dollar princesses from across the pond. A title means nothing to me.”
“It’s not like that, Macie.” Her brother’s expression softened. “I do understand, more than you think. Father has it in his head that you’ll be a countess. Or a duchess. But that doesn’t mean you won’t find a man with whom you can make a good life, title or not.”
“In that case, I fail to see the problem with my gown. Or any of my other choices, for that matter.”
Glancing down at her drab skirt, she smoothed out a small wrinkle. The peculiar blend of olive and brown and gray would not have been flattering under any circumstance. In nature, only a female bird employing camouflage would prefer feathers of such an abysmal shade. But wasn’t that precisely what she was doing? Camouflage seemed the most appropriate strategy to endure this infernal soiree.
“Whether I am cloaked in vibrant hues or in this... admittedly unusual shade, I am stillme. A man well suited to a match will see that.”
“Ah, Macie. You are an original.”
“Quite the understatement.” To her left, she spied a petite blonde garbed in a stunning teal gown, rather like the one she’d left hanging in the wardrobe of her Mayfair townhouse. “I do believe Miss Nolan has eyes for you, Jon. Your time would be better spent squiring her about the dance floor than lurking here with me.”
Glancing toward the beauty who’d set her sights on him, Jon’s eyes brightened. “You may have a point.”
“I’m right, and you know it.” Her gaze settled on the narrow strip of white silk he’d fastened a bit haphazardly about his throat. “All that worry about my gown, while you’re standing here looking all topsy-turvy. Hold still.” Reaching up, she quickly straightened his crooked bow tie. “Now go and enjoy yourself. At least one of us should have a good time tonight.”
“Very well.” His forehead furrowed again. “But promise me you’ll make an effort to... mingle.”
“Even looking so very hideous?” Macie teased.
“That word could never describe you, Macie. Even when you’ve pinned your hair back so tightly, the strands look to be in actual pain.”
“I will have you know this style is rather fashionable.” Macie touched her fingertips to her severe chignon. “I even selected a pearl-tipped hairpin especially for the occasion.”
“That belongs to Mum. I must say, it is a good choice.”
“At least something I’ve done meets your approval.”
“You’re every bit as pretty as our mother.” An emotion Jon seldom revealed flickered in his eyes. “But you do possess a talent for making yourself as drab as a peahen.”
She fashioned a look of mock confusion. “Modesty is a virtue, is it not?”
Her brother’s gaze drifted back to the blonde, whose display of cleavage paid no tribute to that particular virtue. “I’d say that’s open for debate.”
“Jon, I know what I’m doing.”
Turning his attention back to her, he cocked a brow. “Do you now?”
“Of course.”
He sighed beneath his breath. “At times, I have my doubts. But for now, I will leave you to your peahen charade.”
Peahen. The word, kinder than most she’d heard used to describe her, echoed in Macie’s thoughts as her brother made a beeline toward the elegant blonde before her dance card filled.
Spinster. Wallflower. Bluestocking.
On the shelf.
The busybody gossips were right. But they did not realize that Macie had not been placed there by fate’s cruel hand. Atthe rather ancient age of twenty-five, Mary Catherine Mason was there by choice.
A scandal here. A scandal there. Since her debut—an inauspicious event during which she’daccidentallytoppled an entire glass of red wine onto the trousers of an overly amorous lord—she’d quickly learned that was all it took to send the Lord Rocks-for-brains of London on their merry way.
Over time, the conveniently spilled goblet of whatever beverage best suited the occasion had become a reliable strategy to deter the most persistent dolts. Of course, she didn’t want to become predictable, now did she? Once, she’d employed a prop sword—a brilliant accessory for costume balls—to discourage the attentions of a particularly obnoxious earl. The memory of the boor’s shocked expression as she’d jolted him in his noble bum still brought a smile to her lips. On another occasion, she’d experienced a delightfully convenient costume malfunction while garbed in a gown inspired by a Grecian goddess. And there was the time she’d arrived at a fancy ball while riding her bicycle. She’d been perfectly respectable—in her eyes, at least—with the bloomers beneath her gown protecting her modesty. Of course, her poor, beleaguered brother had not seen it that way. And neither had the baron-to-be who’d reportedly sought to woo her and her dowry that night.
