She pressed her forehead to her mare’s neck. “Well, my dear, it seems I must try harder.”
It was plain enough what must be done. If Society insisted upon imagining her enamoured of Lord Langley merely because she monopolised his company, then she would give them more – far more, provided it stopped short of Theo’s most outrageous suggestion of a kiss, which was too ghastly even to entertain. Heaven help her, she would sooner embrace a groom in the mews than let Theo’s mouth anywhere near her own.
Her new scheme required only the simplest of trysts: Theo must dance with her, and upon the conclusion of their set, escort her by some sly contrivance into an antechamber. A library was best, but any small withdrawing-room would do, provided it boasted both curtains and witnesses prone to ill-timed entrances. Theo would place one hand boldly at her waist, while she tilted her head just so, asthough whispering some wicked promise. At that instant, the curtain would be flung wide, and Society’s chorus would duly perform its lines:
“Merciful heavens! Lord Langley’s hand!”
“Miss Tolliver, in the draperies!”
“Oh, the impropriety – fetch my vinaigrette at once!”
The tableau would be unanswerable and the consequences foregone. She would be bundled off to the country in disgrace, her chances next Season shrivelled like hothouse roses left unwatered. Mama would rage, of course. To be struck from the sacred lists of Almack’s – what greater calamity could there be? Yet Society always forgave, provided the fortune was sound and the title respectable. Georgie would marry brilliantly and redeem the Tolliver name. Mama would claim the victory as her own, Papa would yawn behind his newspaper, and Hetty herself would be – at last – free.
All that remained was for Theo to play his part.
Chapter 6
Hetty sat stiffly as Molly wrestled with the hooks of her gown.
“If I expire from tight lacing,” Hetty said darkly, “do be sure to inform Lottie that she shall not have my bedchamber. I care not if I am cold in the ground – I shall haunt her all the same.”
“You mustn’t expire just yet,” Georgie said serenely from her perch at the foot of the bed. She sat cross-legged atop the counterpane with a clipboard balanced upon one knee. “You must live long enough to marry Lord Langley and escort me to every ball of my come-out. Matching gowns. Coordinated fans. I have made extensive notes.”
“I am not marrying Lord Langley,” Hetty snapped, as Molly gave a particularly vindictive tug to the ribbon fastening at her back. “And you may keep your coordinated fans to yourself.”
Georgie blinked and made a careful note. “Very well. I shall mark you asundecided.”
“Mark me down assix feet under,” Hetty muttered.
A knock came at the door, and a moment later Marianne slipped inside, clutching a book to her chest. “Mama bids you come down in ten minutes,” she said, barely glancing up. “She also wishes to know whether your slippers are presentable.”
“They are spotless, I assure you,” Molly said. “I have been polishing them since the tea tray was cleared.”
Mari drifted towards the fire and curled into an armchair like a contented cat, already burying her nose again in her pages.
“What are you reading?” Hetty asked, watching her in the mirror.
“A French volume Georgie insists must not be seen downstairs.”
“Because it containsscenes,” said Georgie, her tone lofty from her place upon the bed. “Entire chapters of the most unsuitable sort.”
“Notentirechapters,” Mari murmured, flipping a page.
Hetty arched a brow. “Mark the good passages for me, will you? I should like to peruse it next.”
Mari gave a rare smile.
At that moment, Molly took a step back and clasped her hands with a breathless sigh. “There now, Miss. If I may say so, you do look quite the jewel of the Season.”
Hetty stood slowly, letting the silk of her skirts fall into place. The gown was pale blue, delicate as a robin’s egg, with a scatter of silver embroidery at the hem. The bodice – square-cut and trimmed with tiny seed pearls – fit just so, while the sleeves were gathered with blue ribbons to match. A pearl comb glinted in her coiffure beneath the candlelight, and the sash at her waist matched the faintest blush of pink in her cheeks.
“Oh, you look radiant.” Georgie gave a great sigh and flopped backwards across the bed in despair. “It is positively unjust that I must endure another year until my turn. I have perfected my curtsy, committed every cotillion to memory, and still I am condemned to rot in the schoolroom.”
“You say that now,” said Hetty, reaching for her gloves, “but wait until you are being inspected like a prize goose by thirty gentlemen who only wish to speak of their estates and their horse’s most recent affliction.”
“I adore horses,” Georgie said dreamily. “And I should not mind being a prize goose if it meant someone sent me peonies.”
Mari did not look up as she turned a page. “You are already a goose.”
