Page 11 of A Death, A Duke, And Miss Mifford
"Uncle," Mrs Mifford held a gloved hand to her heart, as though wounded, "How can you say such a thing when Northcott has not even arrived?"
Lord Crabb did not have a chance to reply, for a ripple of whispers went through the room, and every head turned toward the door. Northcott, resplendent in a dark coat and trousers, stood surveying the room with his cool, blue eyes. Beside him stood a lady of middling years, in a deep ruby gown, of material so lush that Mary felt a strong urge to rush over and stroke it.
"Northcott," Mrs Mifford breathed, before turning to Lord Crabb and offering him a sickly sweet smile, "Well, seeing as though he is here, it would be rude of me not to allow you to introduce us."
Mary had to give her mama credit for her audacious scheming; she had known that as social equals, it was expected that Northcott would seek out the company of the viscount. Indeed, the duke gave a rather alarmed look around the assembled citizens of Plumpton, before he spotted Lord Crabb and relief washed over his face. With a rigid back, the duke began to make his way over to the viscount and the Miffords, with his companion on his arm.
"Northcott."
Lord Crabb rose, creakily, to his feet to greet him.
"Lord Crabb," the duke replied formally, as though they were at court, "Allow me to introduce my mother, Her Grace, Cecilia, Duchess of Northcott."
Mary had guessed that the woman was Northcott's mother, given her age and the similarity of their colouring, but nevertheless, she felt a slight thrill to realise she was definitely in the company of a duchess. With surreptitious eyes, Mary assessed the duchess' clothing, hair, and jewellery--all tastefully elegant, yet obviously expensive--as well as her comportment, which was regal and proud. Never in her life had Mary seen one with as rigidly straight posture as Her Grace, and she hastily squared her own shoulders in reply.
Once Northcott had introduced Lord Crabb, it was Lord Crabb's turn to introduce his own extended family, albeit with a show of reluctance. Once he had introduced Mr and Mrs Mifford, he gave a loud sigh and turned to the four sisters and waved a hand at them.
"My great-nieces," he grumbled, "Miss Mifford, Miss Jane Mifford, Miss Emily Mifford, and Miss Eudora Mifford."
"My, my," Her Grace blinked, "Four girls in one house."
"Five if you include the cat," Mr Mifford replied, with a wince of suffering, "Though I try not to."
Mary saw Northcott's lips twitch in amusement, and a giddy thrill went through her, which she tried desperately to quash. It would not do to develop a fanciful longing for His Grace, for she had as much a chance of capturing his attention as she did of capturing Prinny's.
And, she reminded herself sternly, you don't like men anymore; you are a spinster.
Still, despite her inner protests, when Northcott's blue eyes caught hers as she stared at him, she felt a shiver of something strange and delicious run through her.
Thankfully, the music began, allowing the Miffords to take their leave of the aristocratic circle they had found themselves in. Mr Mifford led his wife to the floor for the first set and Jane, Emily, and Eudora had their hands claimed by some of the town's young bucks, leaving Mary to wander the periphery of the room.
"Are you not dancing?" Sarah Hughes called, as Mary approached her.
"No one has asked me," Mary answered, trying not to let her upset show.
"I expect that is because you look so beautiful and elegant, that you are intimidating the local boys," Sarah answered, offering Mary a smile.
"Oh, hush," Mary waved away her compliment but was secretly beaming inside. Trust Sarah to know exactly what to say to bolster one's spirits.
"No, it is true," Sarah insisted, "And I am not the only one to notice how beautiful you look this evening--Northcott's gaze has been following you most decidedly as you move around the room."
"Hush, Sarah," Mary answered, this time flushing pink. Her heart, within her chest, began to beat furiously with excitement. Was it possible that Northcott admired her?
Mary thought for a moment, before deciding that, no, he did not. Possibly he was just marking her in self-defence, lest she lob another missile at his head.
The two ladies chatted idly, as they watched the dancers make their way through the set. At three and twenty, Sarah was also a confirmed spinster, though that was not from a lack of suitors. Sarah's mother had died some years ago, and she had taken it upon herself to help her father raise her three rambunctious brothers. She was, she often said, perfectly happy and content, though sometimes Mary wondered...
"Faith," Sarah scowled, a most unusual act for one so sweet, "What is Mr Parsims up to?"
Mary dragged herself from her reverie and looked across the room to where Mr Parsims stood talking to Mrs Fairweather.
Or, rather, leering at her, Mary thought, for the rector's eyes were fixed most firmly on the married woman's ample bosom as he spoke. As he talked, Mary saw Mrs Fairweather flush with embarrassment, her eyes darting this way and that, as though seeking an escape. Mrs Fairweather said something in reply to the rector, which made him laugh--a leering sound--and he looked her up and down from top to toe with a lascivious smile.
"Her husband won't like that," Sarah commented, and Mr Fairweather duly arrived at his wife's side, his face a mask of fury.
It was impossible to hear what was being said, as they were too far away, but there was no doubt that the words exchanged were ones of anger. Once Mr Fairweather had said his piece, he dragged his wife away to a far corner of the room where he began to scold her.
"Gracious, what a scene," Sarah said, throwing a glance of concern the couple's way, "It is not Mrs Fairweather's fault that Mr Parsims decided to behave so inappropriately."
