“It might have been.”
The door of the morning room burst open. Their mother stood in it like an overdressed weather event, her hands clasped to her bosom, her cheeks pink, her cap slightly askew. She had been at the front window of course. She had been at the front window since breakfast which had been at half past eight which was an hour at which Lady Westbury had not voluntarily risen since the year of Alice’s first Season.
“He is here,” she breathed.
“Mother.”
“He is here, Alice. The Duke is here, and Joanna is with him. They have come up the steps already. Your father is in his study, and the Duke has asked to see him, and?—”
“Mother.”
“Stand up. Stand up at once. Both of you. Where is your sash, Alice?”
“I am wearing my sash, Mother.”
“It is crooked. Daphne, my darling, you have a thread on your sleeve. Both of you, presentable, I beg of you.Presentable.”
Their mother straightened Alice’s sash with the focused desperation of a woman who had been waiting for this exact moment for at least three Seasons. She tucked a stray curl behind Alice’s ear. She turned, gave Daphne’s sleeve a brisk pluck, and then turned back to Alice and rested both hands on her shoulders.
“Be agreeable, Alice.”
“Mother.”
“Be agreeable.”
“Mother, I will not.”
“Alice, you will be agreeable to the Duke of Langton when he is shown to your father’s study. You will be agreeable to him when he is shown out. You will be agreeable to him until I tell you that you may stop. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Good.”
Their mother kissed her on the forehead, a quick fierce kiss like a brand, and then bustled to the door to listen for the butler.
“You did not really answer my question about the Duke last night,” Daphne said mildly, smoothing her sleeve.
Alice closed her eyes. “Daphne.”
“I am only saying.”
Fortunately, at that moment, footsteps sounded down the corridor. Their mother straightened. The butler appeared in the doorway, and behind him, looking faintly amused, was Joanna. Behind Joanna, looking faintly nothing, was the Duke of Langton.
“Lady Joanna Arnolds and His Grace, the Duke of Langton.”
“Lady Westbury.” The Duke bowed. “Lady Alice. Lady Daphne.”
“Your Grace.” Lady Westbury bobbed a curtsy of such depth that Alice was briefly worried for her knees. “What an honor. What a great honor. You will, of course, wish to see Lord Westbury. He is in his study at this hour. Please allow me; I shall take you there myself.”
“Most kind, Lady Westbury.”
“Joanna, my darling, do come and sit. Alice, you will entertain Joanna while His Grace and your father speak.”
“Yes, Mother.”
The Duke’s eyes flitted to Alice. Nobody else in the room would have caught it, but she did.
She felt the previous evening rush back into her chest in one hot, inexplicable flood, and she had to look at her hands for a long second to compose herself.
