Beatrice looked toward the ceiling. “You and that infernal book of yours.”
“You’re only jealous that you lack the consistency to journal every day,” Margaret said primly.
Beatrice shrugged. “I simply don’t understand the practice. I know what happened to me. I hardly see the point of writing it down.”
“It’s for posterity.”
“Good heavens! I never thought you arrogant in the least until this precise moment.”
“Arrogant?” Margaret’s eyes went wide. “Why arrogant?”
“It’s remarkably conceited to think that your descendants would find interest in what kind of waffle you had any given morning.”
Margaret frowned. “I write more of note than just breakfast.”
“Aha!” Beatrice exclaimed. “So youdowrite about breakfast.”
“Only if it’s interesting,” Margaret spluttered defensively.
Lily was only half paying attention to her sisters’ squabble. She was distracted by Lord Rigsby, who kept edging sideways closer to their grouping. He’d been staring from a closer vantage point each and every ball. His cagey mannerisms made Lily nervous—he moved like one might approach a chicken one intended to leap upon in the next moment.
Beatrice followed Lily’s momentary glance. “Ah, look at that. He’s gotten within five feet this time. I know it’s dreadfully awkward for you, but I do feel inclined to feed him a biscuit, pat him on the head, and tell him well done.”
Lily sighed and murmured, “Please don’t do anything to encourage him.”
Apparently, Margaret was reluctant to relinquish the argument until she felt she’d gained more ground, for she said stoutly, “Very well. Perhaps my journals aren’t for posterity. Perhaps they’re just for my own personal edification.”
“To what end?” Beatrice shook her head. “Not only is it a waste of time at the outset, but doubly so if you actually sit down to reread it.”
“It helps me organize my thoughts.”
“Thoughts aboutwaffles?”
Several heads turned their direction, and Lily shushed her sisters from behind her fan.
Margaret lowered her voice and said stiffly, “I don’t expect you to understand all of my interests. I certainly don’t understand all of yours. Should we discuss your recent preoccupation with sailing ships?”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. Her expression was more alarming to Lily than the fact that Lord Rigsby was now close enough to overhear them—Beatrice had once made precisely that face before she’d slipped a frog into Claire’s bathwater.
“Stop it, both of you,” Lily said quietly, her false smile still in place. “If you want to bicker, do so at home. Even now you risk making a spectacle of yourselves and our family. And if you don’t care for your own prospects, remember that our four younger sisters are waiting their turn to be presented next year. How we conduct ourselves will undoubtedly reflect on them.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Margaret murmured.
“As am I.” Beatrice sighed even though she mimicked Lily’s fake smile. “I wish someone had warned me how tedious a Season could be. Three balls are fun; more than a dozen chafes like an ill-fitting shoe.”
“Goodness, how quickly we become ungrateful for what we once prayed for,” Margaret murmured. “I was journaling about such just the other day.”
Lily fought the urge to narrow her eyes on Margaret, who appeared wholly unaware that her comment might be considered invitation to renew the argument.
Thankfully, Beatrice didn’t take the bait.
“It’s true,” she said. “Of all the things I worried about before the Season started, I never once thought that boredom would be a problem.”
“Who knew that things meant to entertain could become dull through sheer repetition?” Margaret puffed a laugh through her nose.
A rasping sort of cough had Lily frowning and looking around. There, just behind and to her side, was Lord Rigsby. She couldn’t help it, she jerked in surprise, stepping squarely on Margaret’s jeweled slipper.
“Ow,” Margaret hissed.
