The Rake's Intimate Encounter. Ann Lethbridge
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“This must be it,” Darby said, ushering her into a room at the back of the house. A table set with epergnes and covered dishes lined the wall opposite the door. Artfully scattered small round tables allowed for groups of guests to talk, while equally tasteful screens permitted an element of privacy for those who wished it.
Margaret tensed at the sight of an inebriated noble plying his female companion with champagne. Couples and groups also occupied some of the other tables. An army of burly footmen hovered throughout the cream and gold painted room ready to intercede, as her ladyship had promised, should matters get out of hand. Margaret wasn’t ready for this. She wished they’d remained in the drawing room’s seclusion.
Their hostess, a gargantuan figure in a gown of gold tissue, and shimmering with diamonds, circulated among her guests, her plump face beaming, her beringed hands gesturing volubly. She surged towards them in a tidal wave of hastily moved chairs. “There you are,” she cried. “I heard you’d gone off with young Radcliffe. I was about to send Peter—” she gestured vaguely at one of her minions “—to see if you were all right.”
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