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“I never would’ve thought you would stoop so low as to entrap a duke, Ophelia Breckensole. But then, how else could a country bumpkin snare Asherford?” Blond eyebrows and not so dainty nose elevated, Candace scraped a scathing gaze over Ophelia. “You are certainly not duchess material,” she said in her snide, singsong tenor.

She possessed a voice that could curdle milk from another room. It grated along a person’s spine and made one want to stick one’s fingers in one’s ears.

Or stuff a throw pillow in Candace’s rouged mouth.

Ophelia suspected Candace had affected the tone after much practice, with the mistaken belief that she sounded elegant. However, her mother had much the same whiney inflection. One would think they’d notice the swift retreat of anyone within proximity when they spoke, but the two women were as thick as week-old porridge.

Candace would've been beautiful with her golden blond hair and pale blue eyes if it wasn’t for her perpetual pout.

Ann Marie giggled, covering her buckteeth with a pudgy hand. She shadowed Candace and mimicked her unkind behavior. No wonder Candace was her only friend.

“Oh, Candace,” Ann Marie said. “You are too bad. You shouldn’t call anyone a bumpkin. Mama refers to country folk with no breeding clod poles. It’s kinder and less offensive.”

She turned an artificial smile toward Ophelia as if she expected to be thanked for her compassion. Comparing Ann Marie’s acumen to a parsnip’s was an insult to the root vegetable.

Why were either of the young women here?

They assuredly were not friends of the Penningtons or of Ophelia. She highly doubted they ranked high on Stanford’s acquaintance list either.

No doubt, a mutual friend had mentioned the occasion, and Candace and Ann Marie had taken it upon themselves to tag along. Audacious on their part. Gabriella was too well-mannered to make a scene and toss them out, but she’d make sure they never presumed to overstep again.

When several of one’s friends were duchesses, a word here or there in the right ear could see an impudent young lady—or, in this case, ladies—booted to the haut ton’s fringes. Especially when the disagreeable pair arrived with claws and teeth bared and were prepared to scratch one of the guests of honor.

Ophelia glanced over their shoulders toward the house, hoping someone else had noticed the trio on the terrace and might venture outdoors too.

She wasn’t that lucky.

Regardless, she refused to be baited. These two hellcats wanted to draw a little blood because neither of them had any chance of landing Stanford. Or any other man of station, to be perfectly frank. Gentlemen with common sense avoided them as they would a leper.

“If you’ll excuse me. My betrothed is no doubt wondering where I have gone.” Yes, Ophelia felt the merest swell of pride when she said betrothed. It was very wicked of her, but she enjoyed the peeved scrunching of Candace’s winged eyebrows.

“You do seem to make a habit of prowling about out of doors alone, Miss Breckensole. One might begin to question why?” Candace made a pretense of perusing the neatly trimmed shrubberies. “Or are you alone?”

The garden was so small, any man would’ve been clearly visible as the snide wench well knew. Refusing to give the snit the satisfaction of defending herself, Ophelia merely arched an eyebrow.

“Your affianced is in the house, is he not?” Ann Marie chirped in imitation of her friend.

Ophelia stared at her.

Dimwitted nincompoop.

“I just said as much,” Ophelia said, struggling to keep the impatience from her voice.

“That’s how she met that gypsy everyone is gossiping about, Candace. Creeping around the trees and shrubs,” Ann Marie said with another annoying giggle. “Lady Jamesworth claims some of them are quite handsome in an uncivilized way. Why, they’ve even approached her ladyship with improper offers.”

Ophelia barely restrained her snort of laughter.

Django had specifically mentioned Lady Jamesworth as one of his…

What did one call such a woman?

A paramour?

Lover?

Strumpet?

Well, at least now Ophelia knew who the two irritating girls had come with. Lord Jamesworth was a close associate of Maxwell’s. A kind man with soulful eyes that reminded Ophelia of a sad hound dog, he was thirty years older than his frivolous, loose-moraled wife if he was a day. Lady Jamesworth played the man for a fool, and yet he remained devoted to her.