“Thank you ever so much for your charming gift,” Mrs. York cooed loud enough for the entire party to hear, and likely the neighbors as well. “Philippa is overjoyed.”
Philippa did not appear to be overjoyed. Or even middling-level joyful. She bore the sameI am here because I must beexpression she wore at every social function, save the brief occasions when her mother left her side and the reading circle could actually talk about books. Chloe imagined her far more interested in the duke’s famed library than in the man himself.
Not that Faircliffe seemed particularly infatuated. A man in love would have dreamed up a gift better suited to his bride.
“My gratitude,” Philippa murmured.
The duke looked self-congratulatory. “My pleasure.”
Chloe glared at him on behalf of women everywhere who longed for more than token gestures of false affection.
But Faircliffe’s kind didn’t waste time on matters of the heart. Lords and ladies—or those who aspired to become them—selected their unions with cold practicality. Their minds were muddied not with emotion but with visions of titles and dowries and estates and social connections.
Chloe wasdelightednot to belong to a world like that.
Mrs. York clapped her hands together. “And now…a celebratory tea!”
The duke’s face displayed a comical look of alarm. “I don’t think—”
“You must join us!” Mrs. York’s hands flapped like frightened birds. “The ladies were about to have oatcakes and cucumber sandwiches—”
“We were about to discuss epistolary structure in eighteenth-century French novels,” Philippa murmured.
“I never meant to interrupt,” Faircliffe said with haste. “I mustn’t stay, and in fact—”
“Nonsense! Come, come, all of you.” Mrs. York waved her arms about the room, driving her guests into the dining room like a shepherd herding sheep.
Chloe and Faircliffe were both caught in the flow.
Once they passed through the doorway, however, Chloe stepped to one side. She could not take a seat at the table or she would be stuck there for the next hour.
While everyone else was occupied, this was her chance to liberate her beloved Puck. But first, she needed an excuse to disappear. An adorable, furry reason.
She released Tiglet from the large wicker basket. The calico kitten darted between boots and beneath petticoats with a formidablerawr.
Mrs. York gave a dramatic shriek in response.
Tiglet scaled several curtains in search of an open window before darting out of the dining room and flying off down the corridor as though his tail were afire.
Chloe gasped as if shocked that her homing kitten was attempting to dash home. “How embarrassing! I’ll run and find the naughty little scamp at once. Please don’t wait for me.”
Philippa glanced up from her place at the table. “I could help—”
“Sitdown,” her mother hissed. “The duke is here.”
Philippa sighed. “We could at least ring for a maid or footman—”
“It’s really no trouble,” Chloe assured her. “Please serve the tea.”
With a meaningful glance to Mrs. York, Chloe made several unsubtle tilts of her head toward the Duke of Faircliffe, who was tarrying noticeably, as if reluctant to take his place at the table.
“Oh!” Mrs. York said loudly. “You’re absolutely right. Go on, dear. Take your time. Over here, Your Grace. Come and sit by Philippa. We’ve saved you the best seat.”
“Have you met the others?” Philippa gestured at each young lady as she took a chair at the table. “To my left is…”
Chloe slipped from the room at the sound of Mrs. York chastising her daughter for performing introductions out of the order of precedence. Chloe could be gone an hour before anyone would notice.
She wouldn’t need but five minutes.
