Emily Hendrickson by Drusillas Downfall

Ives? He had shown an odd reaction to Lady Felicia, behaving in a manner so unlike his normally genial self that Adrian had almost said something. A close look at his face told Adrian to remain silent. It was too much to think Ives might be jealous!
    Garbed in proper clothes for the evening, he left his room only to encounter Drusilla slipping from hers to hurry down the hall toward the servant’s back stairs.
    He stopped her. “What in the world are you doing?”
    Her look could only be described as vexed. “I must see if Mrs. Simpson requires my assistance.”
    “I should think she can manage a mere dinner. She has Priddy, the maids, and the footmen to help. You’re a companion, not a servant. Cook isn’t giving her trouble, is he?”
    “Not that I know of.” She appeared to gather courage. “Why were you frowning at me while we walked in the garden? I do not think I was doing anything wrong. Or was I?”
    “No. No, you were fine. You enjoy Ives’s company?” He couldn’t have explained just why he had frowned at her. He wasn’t certain himself.
    “It is difficult to dislike a gentleman who is handsome and pleasant, and who offers no insult.”
    “Who offers you insult?” Adrian took hold of her elbow and guided her to the top of the stairs, then down.
    “No one at the moment, sir.” Her mouth firmed, and she looked as though given a chance she would sniff in disdain.
    He would have pursued the matter if they hadn’t reached the bottom of the stairs and joined the others in the drawing room.
    All the ladies had changed for dinner. In their silks and satins they formed a colorful grouping, chatting with the men. Osman wore a green velvet coat that went nicely with Adrian’s mother’s delicate foam-green gown. She might have been buried in the country, but she still had modish gowns. Mrs. Twywhitt wore rose while Cordelia Knight had on a gown of salmon jaconet that gave her a nice color.
    Once Ives and Lady Felicia—wearing ice pink and fragile lace—joined them, it was a short time before Priddy announced that dinner was served.
    Dinner turned out to be far more pleasant than Drusilla expected. She had decided to use the Wedgwood china with the scenes of classical ruins and the crystal finger bowls that looked so well with it. The marchioness had declared that whatever set of china that Drusilla wished to use was fine with her. The less she had to do, the better, in her sight.
    The food was delectable, particularly the roasted turkey. The delicate silver epergne Priddy had polished with such loving care held a luscious-looking pineapple on the top portion with the lower shelves holding various small fruits destined for the sweet course. Cook had made a splendid trifle that was decadently rich.
    Lord Somers was on her right, while Lord Ives sat to her left. Both gentlemen were charming. Brought up in the rectory where company was common, Drusilla had early on learned the facility of agreeable conversation suitable for the dining table.
    “Brentford told me that you play the pianoforte. Do I dare hope you will entertain us this evening? I enjoy music. I promise to turn pages for you if you will.”
    Drusilla glanced at Lord Brentford, then to her ladyship seated close enough to have heard what Lord Ives said. “Of course, if Lady Brentford would wish.”
    “Lady Brentford does wish,” that lady said with a winsome smile. “There is something so congenial about fine music following dinner.”
    At the foot of the table. Lady Felicia could be observed in animated conversation with Lord Brentford. At the change of courses, she paid scant attention to poor Sir Bertram, then returned her sparkling laugh and beaming gaze back to Lord Brentford.
    Drusilla had no doubt that nothing would be said to that young lady regarding her high spirits! A lady of her rank could speak as she pleased without censure. Her reflection on the manners of those of rank came to an end when Lord Ives queried her about her sister