Honestly, she couldn’t say that anyone was particularly impressed with her as much as curious. She’d felt so sure of herself until this moment. Now she was uncomfortably aware of how overdressed she was. No other woman wore a mantua gown. And if she had, Margot could well imagine the stays wouldn’t have been as tight as hers. Nell had said it was imperative that her waist appear as tiny as possible. “The gents, they like the tiny waists,” she’d said with authority. But as a result of that tiny waist, Margot’s breasts were spilling out of her stomacher. Moreover, the long, thick curl that artfully draped her shoulder practically pointed to her exploding bosom.

Well. It was too late to fret about it. Certainly she couldn’t stand here all night as if she desired to be admired, so she began to walk through that crowd. The silk and taffeta in her skirts rustling together sounded almost deafening to her. Margot was acutely modest now. She could feel her cheeks warming with her mortification and hoped the blush didn’t extend to her breasts and make them appear like a pair of pomegranates. She glanced around, smiling, desperately searching for a friendly face. Her grand entrance, which surely would have been applauded in England, had all the markings of a huge mistake in Scotland.

Arran did not come to her aid. He couldn’t be bothered even to come to his feet to greet her.

Margot might have hated him in that moment. He seemed wickedly smug, as if he enjoyed her humiliation. His smugness made her wish to deflect it that much stronger. She began to speak to those around her, as if she had never been gone, as if this were the normal way of things at Balhaire.

“Good evening, Mr. Mackenzie,” she said to one elderly gentleman. He did not seem to hear her. “Reverend Gale! How do you do?” she asked, taking the reverend’s hand between hers and squeezing it.

“Very well, milady, very well indeed.”

“And your daughters? How are they?”

“Sons,” he kindly corrected her.

“Yes, of course,” she said quickly. Her cheeks were on fire.

“Oh, they’re married, my lads,” he said proudly. “The eldest will make me a grandda before the year is done.”

“Congratulations!” she said gaily, and moved on. “Mrs. McRae, how good to see you well!”

“McRaney, milady,” the woman said as she sank into a curtsy. She did not look Margot in the eye. Scots! So stubbornly loyal to one infuriating man!