he lady who rose gracefully to her feet from the chaise longue where she had been reclining looked faintly surprised as Patience dropped a curtsey.
‘Miss Kilpatrick.’ The beautiful eyes, long and green, surveyed her and her escort dispassionately, and Patience, staring at her in awe, thought she had never seen anyone more lovely.
She was tall and very slender, and her hair, at present in dishabille, was of a coppery gold, the curls falling almost to her waist. Her gown, of sapphire-blue satin, was cut very low across the bosom, the neckline embellished with lace, its panniers sweeping out to either side of her tiny waist. Her skin, of an alabaster white, appeared almost transparent, and her features were classical.
‘Gentlemen. Lud, so many of you. Are you calling on your own account, or accompanying Miss Kilpatrick?’
Patience gave a start, and looked nervously over her shoulder. The viscount looked sardonic, Sir Anthony appeared to have eyes only for Lady Costain, and poor Mr Tyrell merely looked terrified.
‘These . . . these gentlemen were kind enough to escort me here, my lady,’ she said rather nervously.
‘I see. How very kind of them.’
The tone was dry, the look enigmatic, and Patience blushed even more.
‘It was an honour and a privilege, assure your ladyship,’ said the viscount airily. ‘Couldn’t pass by a damsel in distress, eh, Tony?’
Sir Anthony, hearing his name mentioned, seemed to come to a sense of his surroundings, and gave a graceful bow.
‘We are happy to have been of service. We will impose on you no further, ma’am.’ He turned to Patience with his frank smile.
‘Good luck to you. Farewell.’
He bowed again, and lost no time in ushering his companions out of the door. Patience glanced shyly at Lady Costain.
‘I beg your pardon,