‘When I said eligible, I meant for marriage, not for T-H-A-T.’ Being a complete prude, her mother even managed to conjure up a blush for the innocuous word she couldn’t bring herself to say. ‘Why did you have to lower the tone?’
‘Because you brought up the prospect of men, Mama, when you know Hope is allergic to them.’ Charity blinked at her innocently, still beaming at her own unexpected good fortune. ‘With perhaps just one notable exception.’
‘I’d be happy with just one,’ said her mother in her most exasperated tone, ‘as I would hate for her to condemn herself to a life of spinsterhood. Of all my daughters, your standoffish sister has always been the one who worries me the most.’
‘Would we call her standoffish?’ Charity was clearly back to her old self again. ‘I’ve always thought waspish was a better adjective.’
‘Or just plain rude?’
Hope glared at her father for joining in. ‘I am here, you know.’ Then she grinned. She couldn’t help it. The happiness was fizzing inside her. ‘Not that I shall allow any of you to spoil my good mood today. Not when my annoying baby sister is going to be the toast of Covent Garden and I am going to be in Hatchard’s.’ And a certain exception had let slip that he adored her.
In honour of the occasion, her mother called for more tea and some of their cook’s delicious queen cakes even though they would likely spoil luncheon, and were in the midst of eating them when there was a knock on the front door, and moments later, Maria was shown in with Clowance with Luke a few steps behind her.
‘I hear congratulations are in order?’
‘They are indeed!’ Hope’s mother preened. ‘Both of my brilliant daughters are celebrating! Hope is finally going to have her work published and we have just this second learned Charity is to be a lead in my absolute favourite Mozart opera. Isn’t that marvellous?’
‘I adore the opera!’ Clowance beamed at Charity. ‘In case you missed it, that was my subtle way of hinting at a free ticket.’
‘You shall all come to opening night!’ Charity spun a giddy circle. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if our debuts collide, Hope? You on the shelves and me on the stage!’
‘I couldn’t be more thrilled for you, Hope, asPhantasmais a truly outstanding book.’ Maria took both her hands smiling, then winked. ‘Or should I say H. B. Rooke? What a clevernom de plumethat is.’
‘Oh, that was yesterday’s news.’ Her mother gestured for them all to sit with one hand while simultaneously using the other to signal for more teacups and another fresh pot of Darjeeling. ‘It is all changed for Hope this morning, now that the publisher has seen the folly in his insistence she have a pen name.’
‘Does that mean that the androgynous H. B. Rooke is dead?’ Luke managed to look both contrite and delighted when he smiled at her, and was obviously still wondering if his apology had been accepted or if she was going to smash the roses he had stolen out of her mother’s garden unceremoniously over his head.
She put him out of his misery with a begrudging half-smile over the rim of her cup. ‘Dead and buried, the poor thing. Shot in the paddock before the race started.’
‘Good...Good. I am glad that Crocker fellow finally saw reason.’
‘He did. And all on his own too.’ She couldn’t resist one dig while Maria was congratulating her sister. ‘And his name is stillCooper, Luke, exactly as it’s always been.’
He slapped his forehead as he sat beside her on the sofa. ‘Cooper! Yes...’ Then his eyes locked with hers and they were filled with apology. ‘What an idiot I am... I do hope you will forgive me for it.’ It was clear he was talking about yesterday.
‘I find your idiocy endearing. Annoying of course, but part of your charm.’ While nobody was looking she hooked her little finger through his. ‘But I dare say I shall knock it out of you...eventually.’
‘Oh, good heavens above!’ They hastily jumped apart at her mother’s shriek. ‘I have to write to Faith immediately!’
‘Please don’t! Hope and I will see her in a week.’ Charity’s plea suddenly reminded her about their imminent visit to Bath. A whole month without Luke stretched before her. ‘I want to see her face when she hears our news! Don’t you, Hope?’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes lifted to his and saw that the same realisation had dawned. ‘Of course I do.’ As much as she was desperate to see her older sister, leaving him would be unbearable.
‘I hear absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ His whisper was for her ears only. ‘And there is nothing to stop me taking a detour to Bath if I can find some time to go back to Cornwall.’
Chapter Eighteen
There are few events in the social calendar, Gentle Reader, that are as fruitful for purveyors of the finest gossip than any entertainment organised by the Countess of Renshaw. We wait with fevered anticipation for tonight’s scandalous titbits, and will have reliable ears posted everywhere to be sure nothing salacious escapes us...
Whispers from Behind the Fan
July 1814
Five days later, and Hope was in the highest of dudgeons thanks to the useless fichu which adamantly refused to stay put, no matter how much she stuffed the edges into her neckline. As much as she hated to make Charity right about anything, she was starting to realise the red gown she had hastily donned for the Renshaws’ Summer Ball on the spur of the moment, was altogether the wrong sort of gown to adapt. The tightly fitted bodice, which sat daringly off her shoulders, was too low and the delicate watered silk was just too slippery.
Yet as much as she knew the frothy addition she had added really didn’t suit the austere cut of the garment, exactly as her maid had said, giving up on it was giving her palpitations. Because apparently Faith’s infamous scarlet gown, as her youngest sibling had dubbed it owing to it being the very dress that she had first twirled breathless with the man who went on to be her husband, which had looked so bold and elegant on her slimmer sister, was doomed to be an outrageous scandal on her.
From her hiding place behind a potted palm, she stared down at the good four inches of robust cleavage standing much too proud out of the top of it, and cursed herself for being so stupid as to don the dratted thing in the first place.
