“Mother, may I have a turn?” Elizabeth asked again.
“Oh, all right.” Lady Skeffington handed over her glass with one of her long-suffering sighs. “You see, Lady Alice? One never gets a moment of peace in a large family.”
The dowager shot Charlotte a pointed look. “Nor in a small family, either.”
Charlotte paid the dowager no mind, because Elizabeth was a touch too nonchalant as she raised her opera glass, training it not on the river but on the path.
On Lysander.
Oh!
Charlotte looked away, aware of treading somewhere tender.
Georgiana turned her glass on the group and knitted her eyebrows together. “Why would any of you stare at men when the beavers are out? There’s a little one, you know. If you wait patiently, he shows you his darling little tail.”
“A darling little tail?” said Alexandra. “I should like the next turn, please.”
“What’s it like, Charlotte?” There was an odd note in Elizabeth’s voice as she turned back to the table. “How does it feel to have so many suitors?”
As soon as the question was out of Elizabeth’s mouth, Charlotte could see she regretted it. Still, it was said, and Charlotte couldn’t leave it to die on the table. The plain fact of the matter was that Charlotte was rich and Elizabeth was poor, a fatal flaw on the marriage mart and one that killed slowly.
“It goes right to my head, if you must know, until I remember that they’re in love with my dowry, or because the queen declared me a prize to win. It’s very little to do withme.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “No, of course not.”
“I’ll tell you this, I’ve known more of real affection from friends than from suitors. Often I wonder—are love matches real or have we invented them?”
“Charlotte!” cried the dowager. “How can you say such a thing with your own brother so clearly smitten?”
“That’s one marriage in all the ton, Gran. Can you name another?”
Silence descended. Elizabeth opened her mouth, considered, and closed it again.
In the distance, a kestrel let out a mournful cry.
“Well,” offered Lady Skeffington, after much thought, “for the first few months, Lord Skeffington and I—”
“Oh, Mother!” Alexandra plonked her elbows on the table and cupped her perfect chin in her hands. “Now Ishallbe depressed.”
The dowager’s face lit. “The queen! Our own queen and king adore each other!”
“Good Lord, Gran. Is that the best example, given that they keep him under lock and key?” Charlotte shrugged at Elizabeth. “You see? I keep my expectations low.”
“What rot,” said Gran. “Are you three young ladies trying to tell me there’s not a single man in all of England who’s caught your eye?”
Together, as if they were under the same dark spell, Charlotte and Elizabeth glanced down toward the river.
“Prince Belozersky catches every woman’s eye,” Charlotte said firmly, turning back to the table. “He’s taking me on a picnic this afternoon and I intend to come back swooning.”
CHAPTER 27
Charlotte planned her picnic withthe grim determination of Wellington before the battle. If she couldn’t be happy with the prince, a man she’d known for ages, who was kind, quick to laugh, and handsome enough to make Gran reach for her smelling salts, what hope was there?
First, she tackled the question of what to wear. All her walking gowns were deeply flattering, of course, though Charlotte considered dressing to emphasize her assets the least interesting form of fashion, especially when she could dress to amuse herself, or to set a mood, or even to rattle strangers. Green was the obvious color for today—if they rolled around in a meadow, there’d be no incriminating grass stains to show for it—but what sort of green? Something witchy, all flashing eyes and feminine wiles? A woodsy green to inspire thoughts of what they might get up to in the deep, dark forest? No, and no. Today called for honesty, so she reached for a simple muslin gown in a lovely, cool shade of Prussian green, and paired it with a spencer with Spanish slash sleeves and only the smallest froth of lace peeking out at the wrists. A dress with few frills to hide behind.
Once she was dressed, she went down to the kitchens to wheedle a basket out of Cook, then turned her thought to choosing the perfect picnic spot. Clare had more than seven thousand acres of parkland, woodland, fields, farms, and marshland, along with a charming dellor two, so there was no shortage of promising places. The great lawn? Convenient, but not private. Under the dappled light of the willow on the riverbank? Still too close to the house for comfort. In the end, she chose a spot on a hill past the home woods with a view that included the distant blue line of the sea.
Princess Belozersky. Charlotte tried it on as she adjusted the angle of her bonnet. Or Princess Belozerskaya, actually, as he’d once explained was the Russian way.
