A fit of giggles burst from Jemma's lips. “The Egg? There is an estate in England called The Egg? Really, Petra, you’re joking.”
Petra pursed her lips. “Stop making fun, Jemma. I swear it's true.”
Her cousin was a dear girl, and Jemma adored her, but Petra was more than a bit dramatic. She reached out and took her cousin's hands in her own, biting her lip so as not to laugh and injure Petra's feelings more.
“I’m sorry, Petra. I didn't mean to poke fun. But, why would a mysterious cursed duke have an estate named The Egg? Even you must admit it sounds a bit silly.”
“I suppose it does,” Petra agreed. “Perhaps he won't like me.”
“Unlikely. You are pretty as a picture.” Jemma didn't lie, Petrawaslovely. Her pink taffeta gown fit her petite body to perfection with the modest neckline drawing discreet attention to Petra's full bosom. Pink satin ribbons wound through her dark golden hair and tiny pink diamond earrings danced from her ears. Petra's complexion was like cream, not one freckle or blemish marred it, unlike Jemma's own. Her cousin could dance exceedingly well, play the pianoforte, sing, embroider and speak perfect French. How in the world could the dukenotfind Petra suitable?
“Perhaps if you caught me a fish, or a rabbit for supper, now that would be something.”
“Stop it.” At the oddest times, she would hear Nick's voice, teasing her, making her ache with loss and the memory of her own foolishness.
Petra took back her hands, her eyes filled with hurt. “You do not need to chastise me, Jemma. I am not nearly as brave as you are.”
“I didn't mean you. I was speaking to myself. I am nervous, you see, to meet a duke. London fairly terrifies me after the quiet of Bermuda and your father's home in Essex,” Jemma lied smoothly, squeezing Petra's hand in apology.
Mollified, Petra flashed a brilliant smile. “It is ratherexciting, though I don't at all wish to marry him. I've only seen him once and he's never spoken to me. He is quite handsome, in a rough sort of way, and very tall.”
Jemma took a deep breath, thinking again of Nick. “See? Not all bad then is it?”
“Well, there is his sister, Lady Arabella. She's a holy terror. I heard Mother whispering about it to one of her friends at tea. I shouldn't like havingheras my sister-in-law,” Petra confided. “She's quite formidable.”
A knock came at the door and Anna poked in her head. “Lady Petra, Miss Jane Emily, I beg your pardon, but Lady Marsh requests your presence in the drawing room straightaway. His Grace will be here any moment.”
Petra sighed in resignation. “I suppose it is time for the lamb to go down.”
“Perhaps the duke will decide he doesn't care for lamb.” Jemma winked and linked arms with Petra, leading her cousin down the large curving staircase to the drawing room. She hugged Petra tightly to her, determined to help her cousin navigate the evening. It was the least she could do, for hadn't her uncle welcomed her into his home?
“I shall escort you myself, my lady. Your uncle has been in London for the last month on business, but is due to return to Essex. Hopefully we shall catch him before he departs,”Mr. Meechum, a bit flustered by her appearance in his offices, had taken a few moments to read the contents of a letter addressed to him in William Manning’s own hand. He’d pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Jemma, smiled kindly as he did so. “You look as if you are about to weep, child.Don’t fear, forif Lord Marsh has left for the country, I will take you myself to Essex.”Mr. Meechum need not have worried for they were informed upon their arrival at the Marsh town home that Lord Marsh was still in residence.
The solicitor and she were settled in the drawing room to await Lord Marsh. Jemma dabbed repeatedly at her eyes, grateful for the handkerchief, not wishing to meet her family for the first time in tears. What if her uncle threw her out? Declined to acknowledge her? She need not have worried.
Lord Marsh entered the drawing room, the suspicion clear in his manner as he greeted Mr. Meechum and took the proffered letter from the solicitor. Jemma watched as her uncle regarded her with a shocked look. “Willie. You are Willie's daughter?” Her uncle's voice broke as he stood before her. “You look like Maureen.” Shaking his head in disbelief he wrapped his arms around her in a fierce paternal embrace. “Do not worry, niece,” he said as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, “you are home now and safe.”
“Jemma.” Petra admonished as Jemma tripped on a step. “You very nearly took a tumble.” Petra held on to Jemma's arm firmly. “I fear you are a bit melancholy tonight, and I think your mind is elsewhere. You are missing Uncle William, aren't you?”
Jemma righted herself, grateful for her cousin's hold on her.
“It's all right,” Petra said softly. “It is hard to come out of mourning I expect, after wearing black for so long. Tonight is the first night you've been allowed some color and it's brought back your memories.” Her cousin pressed a kiss on her cheek. “You don't have to stay, of course, for the sacrificing.”
Hearing her cousin's joke, Jemma couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, Petra. What would I do without you?”
“You will have to make do with me, I expect, after we've married Petra off to her cursed duke.” Rowan, Petra's older brother, announced from the bottom of the stairs. “What a pretty pair you two are. I shall have to fight suitors off of you, cousin, when I escort you about this Season.” He winked mischievously up at Jemma, his hazel eyes twinkling in delight. “But not Petra, of course, she'll likely be married before the Season starts and miss all the fun. She'll be busy having tea with Lady Dobson and her cronies while we're out dancing.”
“I do not find you amusing, Rowan.” Petra stuck out her tongue at her brother. “Lady Dobson is a horrid woman who I would not have tea with even were I married.”
Rowan flicked back a lock of dark brown hair absently as he held out both arms for she and Petra. “Perhaps the duke will simply turn you into a newt or something,” Rowan stated solemnly to his sister. “I’m told Lady Arabella can cast a spell with a crook of her pinky finger.”
Petra's fan lashed out, neatly smacking her brother on the arm. “Stop Rowan.”
“Rowan, leave Petra be.” Aunt Mary, her plump form clothed in dark blue silk, rushed forward. “Come, let us have a sherry in the drawing room while we wait for His Grace.” She pulled Petra away from Jemma and towards the seat before the pianoforte, “let’s have you sit right here.” She patted the plump cushion. “Play something.”
Petra thumped down on the bench, annoyance stamped on her pretty features. “I don't feel inspired.”
Jemma’s aunt arranged Petra's pink skirts to drape fetchingly over the pianoforte's bench. She pinched her daughter's cheeks.
