Free Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) by Elizabeth Essex Page A

improper acquaintance with the most proper man in all of Edinburgh.
    Perhaps this little time away from thievery was going to be fun after all .
    And speaking of fun—out of the corner of her eye, Quince spied a penny that had wedged itself between the cobbles. She quickly bent to pick it up—waste not, want not. She was such a magpie that she couldn’t pass up even a single penny for the poor box.
    “Good morning, Lady Winthrop.”
    Quince whirled upright, and there he was, as if they had conjured him up with their talk, looking as polished and urbane as a gem in a jeweler’s shop. Strathcairn was again magnificently turned out in an impeccably tailored suit of the darkest forest green silk, not a hair out of place, nor so much as a fleck of powder marring his sleeve.
    She felt her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment—an emotion she rarely felt—from having him catch her grubbing for pennies in the dirt. She hid her clarty, soiled fingers behind her quilted skirts. It wouldn’t do to have him wondering if she were as hard up for money as an old lady’s companion.
    The marquess was doffing his tricorn hat to her mother before he turned the focus of that acute green gaze toward her. “Lady Plum. Wee Lady Quince.”
    Pleasure swirled into her veins like warm cream into her morning chocolate cup.  
    “Strathcairn.” Quince took care to let nothing of over-friendliness or intimacy warm her voice, because not even that off-putting “wee Quince” could curtail Mama’s interest, or Plum’s competitive instincts.
    Her sister’s greeting was everything effusive that Quince’s was not. “Why, good morning, my Lord Cairn .” Plum emphasized Quince’s mistake in calling him by his former title, before she swanned into a graceful curtsey, spreading her immaculate, embroidered lawn skirts like a fan. “We were just talking about you. So very nice to see you.”
    “Likewise, I am sure, Lady Plum.” Strathcairn touched his hat, but wisely ignored Plum’s invitation to appease his curiosity. Instead he addressed them all impartially. “And where are the lovely Winthrop ladies headed this morning?”
    “We are shopping,” Mama answered in a politely neutral tone. “Costumes for the Marchioness of Queensbury’s Midsummer Masquerade Ball. Do you plan to attend the masquerade, Lord Cairn?”
    “I do plan on attending, Lady Winthrop.” His glance shied toward Quince—she felt his attention like a physical touch. “And you, Lady Quince? Will you also be attending the Marchioness of Queensbury’s masquerade ball?”
    “Perhaps.” Quince tried her best to be equivocal, while she slid her eyes obediently toward Mama. At just nineteen, her attendance at something as potentially risqué as a masquerade could not be taken for granted. And Mama had just warned her away from the marquess. One must pick one’s battles, Mama always said. “If my mother approves.”
    Mama’s tone was as careful as the look she passed from Quince to Strathcairn and back. “As the ball is a private, and not a public masquerade, I have no real objection. The Marchioness of Queensbury will see that her revels don’t fall into the debauchery and licentious behavior so common during the ticketed masquerades at the Theatre Royale.”
      Plum had not yet given up on attracting Strathcairn’s attention. “Of course, wee Quince will only have an unimaginative costume sewn up, made from some old, pulled-apart gown—she’s so thrifty she picks up pennies. The only reason she’s even remotely fashionable is that I give her my cast-offs. If I didn’t, I daresay she’d be an embarrassment to us all.”
    “Plum.” Mama’s tone was like water dousing the flame of Plum’s malice before it could singe anyone else.
    “It’s quite all right, Mama,” Quince put in swiftly before anyone could remark any further upon her thriftiness, nor any potential reasons for it. Let them all think she was too tight with her purse, or too disinterested in