Page 81 of The Trouble with Tweed

“Yes, please,” Lily said.

“Indeed,” Beatrice added, her words sounding pedantic and rehearsed. “I’m quite depressed.”

It was only because Claire happened to be watching that she saw Beatrice quickly shake a large amount of pepper onto the back of her hand and snort it as if it were snuff. Instantly, Beatrice devolved into a fit, alternately coughing and half-retching. Her face reddened, but there was nothing about it that spoke of tears—more like she’d bitten into a bad herring.

William’s paper lowered. His chin drew back, his forehead wrinkled. “Good heavens, Beatrice. Do I need to call the physician?”

She shook her head wildly, though she wasn’t able to properly respond. Snot began to drip from her nose.

Claire thumped her unhelpfully on the back. “She gets like this sometimes. It will pass. We’re only lucky it’s never happened in the parlor, in front of gentleman guests.”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes—or it appeared she was trying, at least. They were already quite narrow, due to the coughing and gagging. Her attempt at a scalding stare was altogether ruined when she sneezed abruptly into her linen napkin.

William frowned at each of them in turn. “Very well. We’ll shut the house to visitors for the day. Though I suppose I don’t have to remind you that the Season is rapidly drawing to a close, and some of your callers will soon be leaving town for the countryside.”

“We’ll be sure to set Beatrice to rights before tomorrow,” Claire said solemnly, patting her sister’s back a little harder than strictly necessary. “A dunk in a well ought to do it.”

Beatrice scowled at her, blew her nose with a honk, and promptly retch-coughed again.

CHAPTER 26- CLAIRE

The final ball of the Season was a notoriously grand affair, the hosting of which was possibly more competitive than any courtship. The Duke of Devonshire’s ballroom was more beautiful than any Claire had previously seen. The addition of enormous arrangements of white and green flowers in huge cast-iron urns only added to the magnificence, as did the chiffon streamers winding around every marble pillar.

It was only right that this should be the most opulent party of the season. Not only did the ball signal the effective end to the nobility’s social whirl, but it was also theatre of sorts—a night where all interested parties might finally see where the matrimonial chips had landed. Several engagements had already been announced over the prior weeks, but some of the most fashionable of the ton had delayed their decision until the final moment, possibly in order to increase suspense.

Many eyes would be upon Dahlia Warrington this evening, for example, as a rumor was floating through the ether of gossip that she’d not decide until the stroke of midnight. It was a fanciful notion, but Claire knew Dahlia to be far more practical than others might believe. If the lady hadn’t already made up her mind, Claire would dine upon her finest hat.

Claire could readily admit—at least to herself—that her own Season had been an abject failure. She’d entered strong-willed, with a clear plan to secure a loveless marriage to a Tweed. But she’d realized last night, while staring up at the canopy of her bed, that the trouble with Tweeds was that none of them were Michael.

Now, she was to exit the Season firmly a spinster. They’d whispered it about her at the outset, she knew, due to her age and the fact that she’d actually been out for four years. Now it would be a stone-chiseled fact.

She had already decided to ask William tomorrow if she might retire to one of the country estates for the foreseeable future. She had no desire to stay in proximity to London, to have a front-row seat when Michael finally took a bride.

Which might be sooner rather than later, based upon the way he was smiling politely down at that same beautiful brunette on his arm. Claire turned away, a benign smile frozen on her lips.

Margaret held no such compunction. She frowned in their direction and gave Claire’s elbow a bolstering squeeze. “Would you like me to push her into the punch table?”

Claire shook her head and murmured, “I’d settle upon knowing who she is.”

“I’ll find out.”

Before Claire could do more than open her mouth to protest, Margaret plunged into the crowd with a determined expression, winding her way toward Michael and the dark-haired beauty. Claire whirled to put her back to them, looking for someone with whom she could pretend to be engaged in conversation.

Terror thrummed down her spine at the thought that Michael might believe that Claire had sent her sister over to investigate. The evening offered quite enough humiliation without Margaret’s intervention.

A short distance away, Beatrice and Rachel Warrington were huddled next to one of the swathed pillars. They were speaking so intently to one another, their heads close, that they didn’t notice Claire approaching until she stood directly before them.

“And if that doesn’t work,” Rachel was saying, “you might try a tincture of water and cayenne, though that would undoubtedly be very painful. I definitely wouldn’t apply it directly to your eyes. Perhaps a bit in the nose might do it.”

Claire frowned down at them. “What on earth are you two hatching together?”

They jerked apart, eyes comically wide.

“Nothing, of course,” Beatrice stammered. “At least, nothing that need concern you.”

“It concerns me if you’re going to put cayenne in your eye. That’s as good a way to go blind as any.”

“Of course I’d never do such a thing,” Beatrice said.