“Thank you, Timma.”
“And your lovely hair, I have done an excellent job arranging it, just so.” Timma snapped her fingers.
Meggie tried for a smile, but couldn’t find one. “Thank you, Timma.”
When she went downstairs, Darby was there, as if he’d been waiting specifically for her, she thought, which he had, and allowed him to lead her into the drawing room. Jeremy Stanton-Greville and Miss Charlotte Beresford were there. Uncle Douglas, unbeknownst to her, had invited him to dinner. Jeremy saw her and immediately jumped to his feet. He said as he walked quickly to her, “You are not thirteen years old any longer, Meggie.” He kissed her hand, hugged her, then stepped back. “You look quite beautiful.”
“Thank you, Jeremy.”
But she saw that his eyes couldn’t even remain on her face for more than an instant, perhaps two, before swinging back to Charlotte, who looked like a princess, sitting there, her lovely dark blue silk skirts fanned out around her, her decolletage not comparing to Aunt Alex’s, but still, all that young very white flesh on display would make a man bite his tongue before swallowing it.
She nodded toward Charlotte. “Good evening, Miss Beresford.”
Charlotte trilled a laugh. “Come now, we will soon be related. Do call me Charlotte.”
Meggie couldn’t say, “No, you miserable hussy with your big breasts, I would like to shoot an arrow through your heart.” So she merely smiled and nodded. “No, we won’t be related. Jeremy is not a blood cousin,” she said and turned her full and complete attention to her aunt and uncle.
Meggie didn’t remember much of the evening when she rode Eleanor the following morning with her aunt and uncle. She wasn’t remembering much of this, either. She kept her head down close to Eleanor’s sleek brown neck and let the wind rip through her hair.
She wanted to go home but knew she couldn’t. It would distress her father and Mary Rose, and Uncle Douglas and Aunt Alex, particularly since they’d been so delighted to present her. They’d gone to so much trouble, smoothing her way, ensuring that she would have a grand time during her first Season. And the very worst was that they would also know what had happened and Meggie didn’t think she would ever live that down. So she would remain and she would enjoy her Season. Blessed hell, she would enjoy every moment of the next two months.
She bit her lip to keep from crying. She would never cry for any man again.
She didn’t believe her aunt and uncle realized her feelings for Jeremy, which made her profoundly grateful that she hadn’t said anything. She had to be merry, laugh, tell them how very much fun she was having. Meggie wanted to howl to the ever-present bloated gray clouds overhead.
Meggie Sherbrooke was declared an original that Season of 1823. She was the most sought-after young lady in all that crop of debutantes, and feted until she should have been heady from her success, and become quite conceited. Her admirers were legion—that was the ridiculous word Meggie had heard Lady Ranleigh say about the gentlemen who never gave her peace, and she would have laughed, if she’d cared one little bit, but she didn’t.
Uncle Douglas received four offers of marriage, each of them from excellent gentlemen, and each he discussed with Meggie. If any had interested her, then he would have sent the young man she’d selected to go see Tysen, but Meggie just shook her head when he presented them to her.
“Lord Marcham’s son, Lancelot, is quite unexceptionable, Meggie, and appears quite taken with you. He really cannot help his unfortunate name.”
“No, thank you, Uncle Douglas,” she said, and that was that, similar words used to decline each of the other offers.
Douglas wrote to Tysen and Mary Rose at least once a week, his early letters filled with Meggie’s successes, then they were filled with Meggie’s disinterest in any of the gentlemen who praised her very nice Sherbrooke blue eyes, her lovely Sherbrooke hair, her somewhat distracted wit. .
Reverend Tysen and Mary Rose arrived in London the final week of May, both of them very worried.