“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 looks 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.”