Page 57 of The Highlander Is All That

Fortunately, at just that moment, Lord Twiggenberry approached. For once, Elizabeth was relieved to see him. “My lord,” she said, lifting her hand. He kissed it, all too reverently.

“Lady Elizabeth. I do hope you are feeling better.”

“I am. Thank you, my lord.”

He frowned a bit, probably because she had not called him Twiggy, but honestly, she was not doing that. Especially not in this company.

“I still cannot believe that you were ill,” Sally said on a titter.

Twiggenberry pinned her with a rapier gaze. “I assure you, she was.”

Heat crawled up Elizabeth’s cheeks as she recalled just how ill she’d been. And on whom. “I am . . . so sorry about that,” she murmured.

“Not to worry. I have more shoes.” He offered a smile and then his arm. “Will you sit with me, Lady Elizabeth?”

Oh blast. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but he was being so chivalrous, she had to. Besides, it was the polite thing to do. “Of course, my lord.”

As he led her to the chairs set out in the Smythe-Winston music room, he bent his head closer and she got a whiff of his pomade. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered.

Egads. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Have you had time to think about my proposal?”

Her heart set up a clatter. Would she let him down here? In front of the ton? Oh, she couldn’t. “It is a big decision.”

Surely prevarication was not a sin.

He sighed. “That it is. I shall happily grant you more time.”

Wonderful. That was not what she wanted at all.

“Tomorrow, you shall have tea with my mother.”

All of her charitable feelings for him evaporated at his preemptory tone. She’d never liked being bossed around. And tea with his mother was the last thing she wanted.

She shot a glance at his thick lips beneath her lashes. Perhaps the second last thing.

Fortunately, Lady Smythe-Winston stood before she could reply and began making her opening remarks. It would be rude to speak during them or the execrable performances that followed. So Elizabeth sat at Twiggenberry’s side, breathing in the perfume of his nauseating pomade, and listened as the Smythe-Winston twins desecrated Haydn and Scottish folk songs in turn.

While Twiggenberry tried to contain his flinches when a particularly sour note was struck, he failed.

Elizabeth, who was used to Catherine’s playing, merely sat back with a smile on her face and applauded enthusiastically when they were done, awash with gratitude that her name was not on the program.

Following the torture, Lady Smythe-Winston rewarded them for their fortitude with sandwiches and cakes. It would have been a perfectly lovely evening had she not been at Twiggenberry’s side.

He expressed deep concern for her health when she refused to eat, but while the sandwiches looked appetizing indeed, her stomach rejected the proposition. All she could smell was that damned pomade.

Would it be rude to ask a man to change his pomade?

Probably, so she held her tongue.

By the time Aunt Esmeralda signaled that it was time to take their leave, Elizabeth was more than ready to go.

“Thank you for your company, my lord,” she said to Twiggenberry with a nod.

He took her hand and kissed it enthusiastically. “May I call on you tomorrow?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, again because it was the polite thing to say.