Page 43 of Everything a Lady is Not
She shifted her glare from person to person, daring anyone to denigrate the actions of a royal relative. In a manner that threatened to impress Lucy, Isabella rose to the challenge.
“Oh, I quite agree, your ladyship. Birthing a foal is a fine skill that would prepare Lady Margaret for any number of professions, including groomsman or midwife. And see, she has suitable hands for the task.”
Lucy clutched her calloused hands to her waist, wary of the gazes now trained there.
“Of course,” added Miss Braye. “And her nonverbal manner would calm the dumb creatures. They might even view her as one of their own. A fine talent indeed.”
The mocking words had the effect of bringing Lucy ramrod straight. She peered intently at Isabella. “You need not patronize me. If you wish to insult, then do so directly and with courage. Your acting skills are not sufficient to pretend earnestness.”
Isabella’s eyes went wide, and her cohorts gasped. The older women, though, exchanged wicked smiles. The duchess leaned toward Lady Barrington and spoke in low tones.
“Now there is the aplomb of which you spoke earlier.”
Warwick sneered. “I see no aplomb. I see only a milkmaid pretending to be a lady.”
Lucy watched as the face of the duchess grew red with rage. “Scurrilous boy, why…”
Henry leaped from his chair. “Ladies! Gentleman! Please! There is something you must know about Lady Margaret.”
Lucy’s clenched hands became white-knuckled. When all eyes turned to Henry, he motioned toward her. “Through no fault of hers, she passed adolescence in a remote place without the company of finer people or a more conventional education.”
Warwick mumbled, “That explains much.”
Henry faced her with a grave expression. “Lady Margaret. As hostess of this affair, I think it only appropriate that you apologize for such frank and shocking talk.”
She glared at him, wishing to burn him to the ground with her eyes. His lack of support wounded her more painfully than any daggers from the haughty guests. He seemed no friend after all. After gritting her teeth, she offered what words she could manage.
“Please accept my apology. Now, let us dine before I say something actually worthy of one.”
…
Once the duchess settled at the head of the table, Lucy took the appointed place to her right, while Warwick sat to her left. Lady Garvey, Lady Barrington, Miss Braye, and Miss Wharton occupied the next chairs, the older women on one side of the table and the younger on the other as if two armed camps prepared for bloody battle. Despite her rank, Isabella asked to be seated across from Henry in the lowest chair, a maneuver that appeared to miff Warwick. Lucy frowned. What game was she playing?
As the staff served dinner, conversation commenced among the guests. Lucy remained largely silent, not wishing to begin the meal with an immediate breach of etiquette. At the prompting of the duchess, she managed to string together a few sentences for Lord Warwick, but he seemed barely aware of her presence and more interested in the mostly inaudible conversation between Isabella and Henry. Lucy found herself craning her neck toward them as well. She failed to discern anything meaningful.
The main course had only just arrived when Isabella suddenly broke off conversation with Henry and trained her eyes on Lucy. “Lady Margaret.”
“Lady Isabella?”
“Please, dear. You must tell us more of this very intriguing upbringing. What words did Henry use? Remote? Unrefined? Unconventional? We must know more of the details.”
“There is little to say.”
“Oh, come now. At least tell us where it was.”
She glanced at the duchess and then at Henry from the corner of her vision. Both appeared cautious of the question but not overly alarmed.
“Go ahead, dear,” the duchess said. “You can say a little, or as little as necessary. Whatever you deem appropriate.”
She nodded. “A house in Devon many miles from any village.”
Isabella pressed. “With a genteel family, at least?”
“Yes. With a gentleman who, shall I say, represented my father’s interests.”
“What is the gentleman called? Perhaps I know of him.”
Henry’s eyes cut sharply to Lucy and spoke warning. However, his earlier advice of playing the game still echoed through her head. “Oh, I doubt you would know of him. He moved in different circles than the pampered folk of London, as he felt most of them were beneath him.”
