The Bride of Willow Creek(68)
Being reminded that she shared this special night with a husband she wanted to be rid of certainly did nothing to elevate her spirits. But Marsh Collins had only been tactless. Angie hadn’t sensed any harmful intent.
“No,” she said in a determined voice. “Nothing is going to spoil this evening.” She lifted her chin and made her fingers relax on Sam’s sleeve. “Let’s view those European pictures.”
They rolled their eyes over some of the paintings, nudged each other while they stood before one by Monet. Most of the paintings impressed them as blurry and a waste of Stratton Miles’s money.
It delighted Angie and restored her good humor to discover that she and Sam disliked the same smudgy paintings and admired the same realistic portraits. They would never purchase artwork for a shared home, but it pleased her to know they would have agreed on what to buy.
Feeling a bit superior and pleased with themselves, they descended the staircase, vaguely aware that they made a handsome couple and pleased by that, too.
“Would you care to dance, Mrs. Holland?” Earlier, Sam had filled her dance card, writing his name beside every set.
“It would be a pleasure, Mr. Holland. But first I’d like to freshen my appearance.” She leaned to his ear. “I’m dying to see if the powder room is as ornate as everything else.”
Entering the powder room was like stepping into a woman’s most lavish fantasy. The carpet, wall hangings, upholstered chairs, little footstools, and towels were all in shades of rose ranging from a deep rich maroon to the most delicate pale pink silk. Gilt-edged mirrors reflected lamplight positioned to be the most flattering to a lady. A half dozen rose-clad attendants saw to the ladies’ needs, providing hairpins here, stitching up a fallen hem there, scurrying to fetch this or that.
Smiling and nodding to the ladies resting their feet in the luxurious parlor area, Angie glided toward an arch leading to the hand-painted sinks that someone had told her were imported from Italy.
She was marveling at the wallcovering, wondering if it was silk or paper painted to look like silk, when she almost collided with Winnie Govenor.
Tonight Winnie wore satin and tulle in a richly gleaming gray that complemented her eyes and hair. Diamonds glittered at her ears and wrist, and an arrangement of gray pearls ornamented her hair. She was as imposing and coldly distant as an ice queen.
One glance told Angie that Winnie was about to serve up a crushing humiliation by cutting her dead before a roomful of watching women. Her face flamed scarlet and her heart sank.
Chapter 13
While Angie stood paralyzed, wide-eyed with dread, Winnie’s mouth thinned into an expression of contempt. She pulled her skirts to one side as if brushing Angie’s gown would soil or contaminate her. Then she swept past, eyes forward, icily aloof.
A dozen women inhaled sharply, creating a hissing sound. One seldom witnessed a deliberate snub, not in the tight-knit mining district. The incident would be repeated and dissected at length over the next several days.
Shock tingled along Angie’s spine. Never in her life had she been cut. Fire burned in her cheeks and she could hear her pulse thundering in her ears. The utter humiliation of being publicly insulted made her shrivel inside, made her wish the floor would open and swallow her. When she darted a quick glance toward the other women, most averted their eyes, but two or three gazed back with pity and embarrassment.
The pity made her wild inside. She had to do something or explode.
Lifting her skirts, she strode toward the exit, catching Winnie Govenor’s arm as she reached for the latch.
“Mrs. Govenor, it’s Angie Holland. I don’t think you recognized me.” Anger flashed in her dark eyes, but she kept her voice bright and pleasant as she pretended to misunderstand. “I’m not surprised. I looked quite different when we had tea together.”
Winnie directed a cold gaze toward Angie’s fingers on her glove. “Remove your hand.”
“In case we don’t have an opportunity to chat later, I wonder if you intend to visit your granddaughters before you and Mr. Govenor return to Colorado Springs.” Behind her, the parlor was so silent that Angie could hear the music outside the door. “If I know when you wish to see the girls, I can have them ready and waiting. I know how much they enjoy spending time with their grandparents.”
With those words, she reminded everyone present that she was caring for Winnie’s granddaughters, and she made Winnie Govenor appear small and petty. Winnie understood at once. Now it was her turn to flush crimson with embarrassment.
“We intend to take our granddaughters to lunch on Saturday,” she said, her voice trembling with anger.