But the initial awkwardness of the introduction and Mac’s role-playing as backward provincial had kept her from giving way to the astonishment of being in the same room with both her great-great-grandparents. There was no time for shock.
Perry had been correct—Caroline was fascinated by Mac’s supposed origins. And Liam’s ward had proved to be more beautiful than her photograph, with flawless skin, golden hair, and china-blue eyes.
At first she’d seemed the quintessential Victorian lady—or what Mac imagined to be the quintessential Victorian lady: dressed to the nines, pinched and padded into an hourglass figure, feminine, sweet and willing to help—even if she hadn’t bothered to hide a certain condescension toward a plain, disadvantaged girl from uncivilized climes.
But that first impression had soon given way to another. Because Caroline was young. Younger than Mac realized. Young enough to be trembling on the brink of womanhood: wanting her way and not knowing what she wanted, achingly curious, malleable and stubborn, bold and uncertain, just like any other teenager in the history of time.
Exactly the right age to be totally messed up by men who thought they knew it all. At twenty-five Mac felt positively ancient by comparison. Compared to her own great-great-grandmother, for pity’s sake.
There hadn’t been much time to get to know Caroline in the two hours since Mac’s arrival. She’d made a point of watching Caroline and Perry together; the girl basked in Perry’s attention, comfortable in his presence. If the two of them had been left alone to go their merry way, Mac wouldn’t have had a care in the world.
All that changed, however, when Liam arrived.
Mac had expected him to react badly when he found her here. If he’d been convinced before that she and Perry weren’t working together—and she wasn’t sure he bad been—he’d have every reason to suspect her now. And wonder what the hell she was up to.
But for the first time Mac had seen Liam with his ward—his bride-to-be. Their meeting hadn’t been what Mac anticipated. With Liam Caroline’s body language changed, became tense and wary and focused in spite of her façade of grace and charm. Mac had observed the girl’s constant awareness of Liam, as if everything she did was performed somehow for his benefit, every word carefully chosen.
Performed: that was the term. An act designed to win Liam’s approval. To make him notice her.
“You aren’t listening, Rose,” Caroline said, her voice suddenly much louder in Mac’s ear. “But I must be overwhelming you. You had no such necessities in the jungles.”
Mac looked behind her for Caroline’s plush half-tester bed and plopped down heavily, grateful for the respite for her feet and back. She ran her hand along the satiny floral bedcover. Caroline’s bedroom, like the sitting room, was even more ostentatious, if possible, than Mac’s room at the Palace.
Caroline came to stand over her, lips pursed in disapproval. “I know things were very different in your former life, but now you must take my advice. It would never do to be seen… carrying yourself so negligently. You shall never win society’s approval that way.” She patted her golden curls. “I can only imagine what your cousin and Liam would say.”
I know what Liam would say. Suppressing a sigh, Mac straightened. “Is it always so important what they think?”
The frothy coquettishness Caroline had shown with Liam and Perry was completely gone from her manner. “Of course. You must realize, Rose, that to win a man’s regard you must learn to be a true lady. Composed, compliant, and agreeable.”
Mac pricked up her ears. Caroline’s tone was definitely condescending, yet there was a hint of wistfulness in her voice—even a touch of carefully veiled sarcasm. As if she were playing a role she accepted with unacknowledged reluctance.
“So you’d consider yourself an expert in… proper feminine behavior?” Mac asked.
Caroline looked at Mac sharply, and her limpid blue eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second. If she recognized irony, she wasn’t the airhead she appeared—or wanted to appear.
She moved to the small fireplace across the room and sat upright in one of the chairs, arranging her skirts around her feet. “Oh, yes,” she said with false lightness. “I venture to say that I am an expert in the art of being a perfect lady.”