caught her gently, his hands folding round her elbows to steady her. “What on earth has happened? I could hear the uproar from the billiards room.”
He was heaven-sent. Mary resisted the impulse to stick out her tongue at James Easton. “I spilled some tea. By accident,” she added hastily. “I think I splashed Miss Thorold’s dress in the process. Her, ah, friends are rather concerned about her.”
Michael glanced at Angelica, who was now being led from the room, bravely blinking back tears. “Good Lord, is that all? It sounded as though someone was being murdered.”
He was still holding her arms. Mary shifted slightly and he released her with a teasing smile. “I am glad to see that you are unharmed and unhysterical.” Then he caught a glimpse of her left hand and let out a sharp exclamation. “But you didn’t mention seriously burning yourself!”
He seized her fingertips and, ignoring her protests, lifted away the improvised ice pack. The burns, which covered the back of her hand and wrist, did look violent: bright red and swollen from both the scalding tea and now the ice.
“It looks much worse than it feels,” Mary said, squirming under his scrutiny. She could feel James watching the two of them. “Truly, Mr. Gray, it’ll be fine.”
Michael shook his head. “That’s a shocking falsehood, my girl. Come. Let’s go to the kitchen to get some salve for this burn. And call me Michael.”
She hesitated. She didn’t want salve. She wanted to be left alone to think about what this evening’s events meant. And she ought to check on Angelica. Yet going with Michael would at least get her out of the drawing room and away from the scrutiny of James Easton.
Michael smiled — pure flirtation. “First you won’t dance with me, and now you won’t accept assistance from me. I assure you, Mary — may I call you Mary? — I don’t bite.”
Risking a glance at James from under her lashes, she saw his frown deepen. He had one of the most forbidding faces she’d seen in some time, better suited to an inquisition than a party.
“Salve?” she said sweetly. “What a clever idea, Michael.” Placing her uninjured hand in the crook of his arm, she permitted him to lead her away.
Throughout the morning, a steady parade of footmen delivered a series of bouquets to the house. They were for Angelica, tokens of her status as a rich and attractive potential bride. There were so many that the drawing room looked like a greenhouse or a florist’s shop, with vases balanced precariously on every possible surface. Instead of being pleased, though, Angelica seemed bored and even unhappy. When the ladies gathered in the drawing room after luncheon, she curled herself into an armchair and stared out the window. Even after Mary encouraged her to play something on the pianoforte, she only got as far as riffling through her music books before slumping back into her seat.
“Where is Mr. Easton’s bouquet, my dear?” asked Mrs. Thorold.
“I’ve no idea, Mama.”
This was Mary’s cue to seek it out and bring it to a position of prominence.
“Very nice,” was Mrs. Thorold’s verdict. “China roses and yellow jasmine against a background of ferns.”
Angelica sighed and rolled over in her chair. “Delightful.” Her sarcasm was unmistakable.
Mrs. Thorold blinked slowly. “What does it signify, darling?”
Angelica rolled her eyes and recited mechanically. “Roses represent beauty. Yellow jasmine signifies grace and elegance. Ferns speak of the gentleman’s fascination. Therefore, the blossoms represent me, surrounded by the dark greenery of his admiration.”
Mary bit her lip to keep from grinning. At the Academy, she’d heard of the language of flowers. Somehow, though, she’d never imagined it being taken so literally.
“A very delicate compliment,” said Mrs. Thorold. “Mr. Easton is a fine prospect, my dear. Ambitious, of a good family, and it’s obvious he’s quite taken with
He was heaven-sent. Mary resisted the impulse to stick out her tongue at James Easton. “I spilled some tea. By accident,” she added hastily. “I think I splashed Miss Thorold’s dress in the process. Her, ah, friends are rather concerned about her.”
Michael glanced at Angelica, who was now being led from the room, bravely blinking back tears. “Good Lord, is that all? It sounded as though someone was being murdered.”
He was still holding her arms. Mary shifted slightly and he released her with a teasing smile. “I am glad to see that you are unharmed and unhysterical.” Then he caught a glimpse of her left hand and let out a sharp exclamation. “But you didn’t mention seriously burning yourself!”
He seized her fingertips and, ignoring her protests, lifted away the improvised ice pack. The burns, which covered the back of her hand and wrist, did look violent: bright red and swollen from both the scalding tea and now the ice.
“It looks much worse than it feels,” Mary said, squirming under his scrutiny. She could feel James watching the two of them. “Truly, Mr. Gray, it’ll be fine.”
Michael shook his head. “That’s a shocking falsehood, my girl. Come. Let’s go to the kitchen to get some salve for this burn. And call me Michael.”
She hesitated. She didn’t want salve. She wanted to be left alone to think about what this evening’s events meant. And she ought to check on Angelica. Yet going with Michael would at least get her out of the drawing room and away from the scrutiny of James Easton.
Michael smiled — pure flirtation. “First you won’t dance with me, and now you won’t accept assistance from me. I assure you, Mary — may I call you Mary? — I don’t bite.”
Risking a glance at James from under her lashes, she saw his frown deepen. He had one of the most forbidding faces she’d seen in some time, better suited to an inquisition than a party.
“Salve?” she said sweetly. “What a clever idea, Michael.” Placing her uninjured hand in the crook of his arm, she permitted him to lead her away.
Throughout the morning, a steady parade of footmen delivered a series of bouquets to the house. They were for Angelica, tokens of her status as a rich and attractive potential bride. There were so many that the drawing room looked like a greenhouse or a florist’s shop, with vases balanced precariously on every possible surface. Instead of being pleased, though, Angelica seemed bored and even unhappy. When the ladies gathered in the drawing room after luncheon, she curled herself into an armchair and stared out the window. Even after Mary encouraged her to play something on the pianoforte, she only got as far as riffling through her music books before slumping back into her seat.
“Where is Mr. Easton’s bouquet, my dear?” asked Mrs. Thorold.
“I’ve no idea, Mama.”
This was Mary’s cue to seek it out and bring it to a position of prominence.
“Very nice,” was Mrs. Thorold’s verdict. “China roses and yellow jasmine against a background of ferns.”
Angelica sighed and rolled over in her chair. “Delightful.” Her sarcasm was unmistakable.
Mrs. Thorold blinked slowly. “What does it signify, darling?”
Angelica rolled her eyes and recited mechanically. “Roses represent beauty. Yellow jasmine signifies grace and elegance. Ferns speak of the gentleman’s fascination. Therefore, the blossoms represent me, surrounded by the dark greenery of his admiration.”
Mary bit her lip to keep from grinning. At the Academy, she’d heard of the language of flowers. Somehow, though, she’d never imagined it being taken so literally.
“A very delicate compliment,” said Mrs. Thorold. “Mr. Easton is a fine prospect, my dear. Ambitious, of a good family, and it’s obvious he’s quite taken with
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