Gillian mentally reviewed her most recent unpleasant situations and flushed to the roots of her hair. “I beg your pardon, Countess. I will, of course, replace the trellis. I had no idea that the paint would be so very flammable, you see, but after I accidentally tipped the lamp over, it set a bit of the trellis on fire. Just a small bit, really, and I doubt if you can see it without being very close to it, which of course I was in order to put the fire out, and you can be sure I will replace those lovely rosebushes as well.”
The countess stared at her as if she had suddenly grown a third eye in the middle of her forehead; then with a little shake of her head, she made a gesture of dismissal. “It matters not, dear Lady Weston. What are a few roses and a bit of trellis between friends, eh?”
“That’s very generous of you, Countess.”
The countess seemed to be having trouble gathering her thoughts, but she gave Gillian a brilliant smile and spoke in a most conspiratorial tone of voice.
“It is not these trivial matters of which I speak, my dear. I speak of that which a little bird has told me, and I wish to reassure you that you may always consider me a friend should you need a sanctuary.”
Gillian covertly glanced around her. There was quite a crowd surrounding them, and despite the low drone of chatter, they all seemed to be quite interested in what the countess was saying to her. The countess evidently realized that as well, for although she leaned in closer to Gillian, she raised her voice. “I refer primarily, of course, to your husband’s unpleasant situation. You may be assured that whatever anyone else says about him, he will always be welcome at Ashburnham House.”
Several people sniffed, and one man gave a bark of harsh laughter. “Thank you,” Gillian said, confused by the innuendoes. Had she done something to make Noble an outcast? She snuck a glance down at her blue palms and was horrified to see a blue smear on the countess’s lovely pale apricot and gold gauze gown. She tried to edge backwards, but a cluster of people waiting to greet their hostess kept her captive.
“Your support will mean a great deal to Lord Weston, Countess. And to me, of course.”
“And with regards to that other unpleasant situation of which the little bird spoke”—the countess tipped her head to the side, her ostrich plume swaying gently in the breeze from the open windows—“you must always think of me should you need respite from your…troubles.”
Gillian smiled and tried to turn her face away from the sweep of the long ostrich feather. “That’s most generous of you. I shall remember your kindness always.”
The countess smiled again and, with one last pat to Gillian’s arm, she moved off to greet the new arrivals.
Gillian gave in to the eye-watering itch the feather had started and rubbed her nose quickly before turning around to face Charlotte.
“What the devil was all that about?” Gillian asked her cousin.
Charlotte took one look at her and rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Gilly,” she said as she grabbed her cousin’s arm in a grip that never failed to command respect, pushing her to a small room at the back of the long hall. “You’ve got a blue nose! I’ve never seen anyone who has the propensity you have for getting into trouble at a ball. If you’d only kept your gloves on, none of this would have happened.”
“I don’t like wearing gloves,” Gillian complained; she tried to explain about her desire to see the colored lamps but was summarily hushed and turned over to the waiting, if less than enthusiastic, hands of the ladies’ maids.
Half an hour later she reappeared, minus a blue nose, but with a blue hand print on her left flank and wearing a pair of gloves that were too small for her. She picked nervously at them and peered around the ballroom, looking for a friendly face.
“Lady Weston, you look…ah…charming as ever.”
Gillian smiled at the man in front of her. “Thank you, Sir Hugh. That is quite gallant of you, considering I have a blue hand print on my gown and am wearing borrowed gloves.”
“My dear Lady Weston, no one will notice the slightest thing once they have beheld your radiant smile.”
Gillian laughed at the dandy. “ ’Tis the truth, Sir Hugh, you do raise my spirits so with your words. That’s a particularly lovely shade of plum, by the way. It sets off the royal blue very nicely.”
The baronet preened a bit as he smoothed out his waistcoat and checked quickly to make sure his watch fobs weren’t tangled in the ribbon to his quizzing glass.
“You always wear the loveliest colors,” she continued, hoping to return the kindness by paying a compliment to his vanity. “You quite remind me of a peacock with all the lovely shades of blues and greens and purp…why Sir Hugh, is something amiss?”
“A peacock?” he sputtered, his face flushed and perspiring.
Gillian was quite concerned that he might have an apoplectic fit on the spot. She hastened to soothe his ruffled feathers. “Why, yes, but I meant it in the nicest way, of course. I quite like peacocks, Sir Hugh. Oh, Sir Hugh, please do forgive me, I didn’t mean to…oh, blast.”
“It’s a waste of your time talking to the popinjays like that, gel.”
Gillian glanced over at the settee to see who was addressing her. An extremely elderly man was seated on the green cushions, so wizened and frail that he looked more like a shriveled-up child than a grown man.
“Well, I daresay I am more of a shriveled-up child than a grown man, now. I’ve seen a hundred-and-one summers, gel.”
Gillian blushed at her rudeness and sat down carefully next to the man. “I do apologize, sir. I meant you no disrespect. I have this Unfortunate Habit, you see, and sometimes I speak without knowing it. You most certainly do not look like a shriveled-up child. You just look…mature.”
The man wheezed a few times, worrying Gillian until she realized he was laughing. “ ’Tis of no worry, gel,” he cackled, and spent a few minutes catching his breath. “I’ve been called many a name in my day, and if shriveled and wizened is the worst, then I’ve naught to complain of.”
“You’re very sweet,” Gillian said with a gentle smile. “Who are you?”
“Palmerston’s the name.”
“Lord or Mister?”
“Just Palmerston’ll do. Faugh, did you ever see such a sight?” One of the old man’s gnarled hands rose, and a crooked finger stabbed into the air. “Gels in naught more than their chemises. In my day, a gel would have been whipped for appearing in nothing but their folderol!”
Gillian looked at the parade of fashionables as they strolled past her. “I’m sure it must look that way to you, but I can assure you that fashion has at last taken a step forward. My mother used to complain something terrible about all her corsets and panniers and hoops and such. Don’t you think these gowns are much simpler and more elegant?”
“Damn sight more pleasing to the eye, but I’ll not be admitting that to a chit like you. You’re Weston’s bride, ain’t you?”
“Yes, I am. My name is Gillian.”
Two sapphire blue eyes, still brilliant in color despite the age of their owner, turned their gaze on her and considered her from beneath two mammoth bushy white eyebrows. The shaking, gnarled hand made another appearance and poked at her arm. “You’ve taken up quite a challenge, gel. Are you up to it?”
Gillian stared back into the old man’s eyes. “I believe so.”
“It won’t be easy; he’s a long road to travel. There’s bound to be highwaymen about, trying to drive you from your path.”
Gillian found herself drawn into the deep, deep blue of his eyes. They were so clear, so pure, it was like looking into the eyes of a child. What was his connection to Noble? How did he know that Noble had a long journey ahead of him? “I know there will be; we’ve already met with one. I hope, however, that we will make the journey together.”