But Prue’s expression darkened as swiftly as a storm cloud. “But I have vowed never to touch a cosmetic again.”
Celeste froze. “But why?”
“I shun all that tempts the flesh.” Prue pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “For beauty is but a trick of the devil. A mask for temptation. And I shall not be its tool!”
Celeste’s shoulders sagged. What would she do? A maid who refused to do her job?
She was still reeling when the door swung wide without a knock. Rue Archer, her newly appointed chaperone, swept inside, skirts bristling with authority, her bonnet askew as though it had lost a battle with a strong wind.
After a terse greeting, Rue marched across the chamber straight to the window. She braced her hands on the sill, peering into the courtyard below.
Celeste followed her gaze. Captain Graves stood in the field, his saber flashing in the sun as he barked orders to a clutch of wide-eyed recruits.
Rue sniffed. “Look at him. Guard too low. The fool will have his spleen opened before luncheon.”
Her chaperone clucked her tongue, leaning so far out of the window that Celeste feared she might tumble headfirst into the yard. “Raise your guard, Ambrose, you stubborn oaf!” she bellowed, loud enough to make the recruits falter in their footwork.
Celeste pressed her fingers to her lips, aghast. “Madam—he can hear you!”
“I hope he can,” Rue snapped. “Else the man’s skull is thicker than his boots. What good is a soldier who leaves his flanks wide open? A cannonball has better sense.”
Prue clasped her hands primly to her breast. “Oh, Lady Cecilia, forgive this display. I fear Mrs. Archer has given herself over to violence.”
Rue turned, one brow arching. “Violence, child? Then you’ve never seen a real battle.”
Celeste moved closer because, well, optimism had been deeply ingrained in her from childhood. “Mrs. Archer, might I ask you something delicate?”
Rue grunted, not turning her head.
Celeste faltered. “It’s about courtship. Aristocratic courtship.”
That earned her a sharp glance. “Courtship? I know nothing about it. But I can tell you how I married seven husbands.”
“Seven?”
Rue shrugged, lifting a circular candleholder from the table and weighing it in her hand. “The first—ambushed him with charm before he marched to war. The second—outmaneuvered him by feigning illness until he fetched a special license. The third—stormed his lodgings like a cavalry raid, gave him no time to think.”
Celeste’s jaw fell. “And love? Was there love?”
“Love?” Rue dabbed at one eye with her sleeve. “Love in times of war is a fool’s gamble. These men would sooner pledge themselves to a cannon than to a sweetheart. Look at that handsome piece of uniform! No regard for his safety. None! He will leave for war and shatter a woman’s heart without considering the ruin he left behind.”
Before Celeste could blink, Rue launched the candleholder with terrifying precision. It sailed out the window, clanging squarely against Graves’s shin.
He jerked back, clutching his leg with a hiss.
Celeste gasped. “You nearly crippled him!”
“Better a bruised shin than a widowed bride.” Rue turned back calmly, as if nothing untoward had occurred. “As I said. Courtship, I cannot help you with. But siege tactics, widowhood, and battlefield discipline—I know them intimately.”
Celeste sank into the window seat and closed her eyes. How would she ever find love here? This house sucked every tender impulse straight out of the air and spat it back as orders, drills, and bruises.
“This is hopeless. I had more chance of finding the love of my life in the Convento das Flores.”
Perhaps this was her fate then… Soon, she would be marching, dressed in a formless uniform, and throwing projectiles at unsuspecting gentlemen.
Rue’s rough palm patted her hand like she was a skittish warhorse in need of calming. “It’s not that bad. Once you get accustomed to the loneliness.”
Prue sighed mournfully. “I can do your hair. So long as I wear gloves. And perhaps a chastity belt.”
