She would rather hang.
Clara sealed the note and rang for Radcliff to take it and the tray downstairs. As expected, her maid came with the request to join Honora for tea at half-past three. After delivering the tray and note, Radcliff returned to help make Clara ready for both meetings. For the first part of her plan was quite simple—she had to appear pristine and obedient. For the next few weeks, Lady Clara Durham would become the perfect daughter, the perfect mate for a duke.
Perfect for all of Society.
Damn them all.
At the appointed time, Clara paused outside Honora’s boudoir and took several deep breaths.I can do this. Pristine and obedient.She straightened her shoulders, tapped lightly on the door and went in.
Honora sat stitching on one of her endless—and never completed—embroidery projects. Her mother had never been particularly skilled with a needle but felt ladies must appear properly busy with appropriate activities. More than one trunk in their attic was stuffed with the unfinished work of the countess, who was also loath to rid herself of anything she had toiled on so long and hard.
“Mother.”
Honora did not look up. The tea service already sat on a low table in front of the settee where she stitched. “Would you be so kind as to prepare the tea?”
Clara perched, stiff with the proper posture, on the other end of the settee and reached to pour hot water into the teapot. She swirled the water about to warm the pot, then dumped it. She added a small bit of tea from the chest on the tray and added the hot water. She folded her hands in her lap, waiting for it to steep.
Honora poked the needle into the fabric and set the hoop aside. She pushed back on the cushions and smoothed her skirts. “Have you considered what you will wear tomorrow?”
“To meet the dowager duchess?”
“Yes.”
“I thought perhaps the burgundy and blue day gown—”
Honora gave a dismissive wave. “Too dark and informal. What about crimson and cream you wore to the Devonshire soiree last year?”
Clara scowled. “That was two seasons ago. The sleeves are all wrong for this season.”
“The emerald and gold.”
“I look like a frog. What about the sapphire satin from last Christmas?”
Honora paused. “Is it not too wintry? I remember a white fur trim.”
“Radcliff can strip that off. It will be simple but direct.”
“Which is what the duke says about you. Simple and direct.”
Clara fought a tinge of ire. “He thinks I am simple?”
Another dismissive wave. “Not in the way you are thinking. Just that you are”—her mother struggled for the word—“uncomplicated.”
That tinge kindled into a small flair. She tamped it down and turned to the tea as a distraction.Pristine and obedient.She held a tiny strainer over each cup as she poured the tea, then handed one cup and saucer to her mother. A plate of pastries waited near the tea service, but Clara ignored them.
Her mother sipped the bitter brew as Clara added a touch of milk to hers. “The dowager will mostly ask you questions, but do you have any prepared to ask her, in case the need arises?”
Clara blinked. “It did not occur to me I would need such. The Wykeham habit is to direct the conversation.”
Honora stilled, the cup halfway to her lips, and turned a sharp glance on Clara.
Clara focused on her teacup. “Is this a new blend? It seems smoother than Papa’s previous purchases.”
“Clara—”
She set the cup and saucer back on the table and folded her hands in her lap. “I will make a list, Mother, so I will not embarrass you. If the conversation wanes, which I doubt—”
“Clara—”
