It was an impressive structure, severely classical in the neo-Palladian style. It suited Snodgrove’s stoic persona. Although he was behind her, Preshea remained painfully aware of the big Scotsman. Gavin Ruthven. Very Scottish. He sets his brogue forward like a weapon. He doesn’t want to use an Eton accent, although I wager he could. She had to force herself to focus on the other members of the house party. They were assembled in the drawing room around a cheerful fire – a perfect tableau of aristocracy in idleness. Their clothing was impractical, their conversation superfluous, and their smiles as tight as their collars. Preshea felt instantly at home. The moment she entered the room, currents of power flowed in her direction. She knew herself to be beautiful, and, in her overly simple green gown, daring. Risk-takers were often respected in a fixed social order, for they courted the edge of propriety. Always inspire ardor or terror – it matters not which, for in society, they share the same sauce.
