“Or a howling terror,” said the Duke of Morleigh, who had thus far been listening in brooding silence at Georgiana’s side. “Depending on which of his aunts influence him most.”
“He shall grow up to throw soup at his governess if Nell keeps encouraging him,” Georgiana said, only half in jest.
Nell grinned. “He bit me like a lion.”
“I should think he is teething,” Mari said quietly, without looking up from her plate.
Seated at the opposite end of the table, Lord Tolliver chuckled into his wine. “Good lad. The mark of a future politician.”
“Papa,” Georgie said sweetly, “your grandson is but four months old.”
“Which is precisely when true character begins to emerge,” Lord Tolliver replied. “I shall begin his Latin primer at once.”
Lottie, perceiving a convenient opportunity to divert the family’s attention from her matrimonial prospects—and from the Duke of Morleigh, whose presence she had been carefully ignoring—nudged Mari’s shoulder. “Mari, my dear, it shall be your turn soon enough. You will be married and producing heirs before you know what has become of you.”
Mari blanched. “I should rather take the veil.”
“Do not be absurd. You would perish of boredom within a fortnight. No balls. No gossip.” Lottie brightened. “Besides, debutantes make excellent spies.”
“I do not wish to be a spy either.”
“Well then, we must discover a profession requiring no dancing, no conversation, and absolutely no attention whatsoever.” Lottie regarded her with grave consideration. “Perhaps you might become a ghost.”
“Go to the devil.”
“Language,” Hetty scolded.
“Where do you suppose she learnt it?” Theo asked.
“From her beloved elder sister,” Lottie replied, “and I have yet to regret a single syllable.”
The luncheon proceeded in the usual Tolliver fashion—that is to say, only marginally under control. Georgie fawned over baby Henry, as Lady Tolliver issued a stream of instructions on the proper management of infants (“You must support his head, Georgiana. No, not so—good heavens, you shall ruin his posture before he is six months old. And do not allow him to grip your necklace like that; he will develop the most dreadful habits.”) Nell tossed bread rolls to her dogs, Mari read, and Lord Tolliver explained his firm conviction that England ought to establish a proper zoological garden. When a footman tripped over a barking hound and nearly dropped the pudding, Lady Tolliver shrieked, the duke merely lifted one brow, and Hetty looked as though she might go into labour then and there.
Lottie observed the entire spectacle with a genteel smile. It was, in all the very best and most ridiculous ways, home; and though she had no intention of spending the Season behaving any better than she had the last, there was comfort in knowing the Tollivers would always be there, barking dogs, bickering siblings, offensive remarks and all.
As the remains of luncheon were cleared, the conversation turned once more towards the Season.
Lord Tolliver leant back with great satisfaction. “Ah, London in the spring. The scent of crushed violets and dashed matrimonial hopes. How thrilling it shall be.”
“Thrilling for whom?” Mari muttered, nose still within her book.
“For you, my girl. You are seven-and-ten now, are you not? Precisely the age for being trussed up in silk and admired by young men with far too much pomade in their hair.”
Mari’s complexion went ghostly.
Lady Tolliver reached across and laid a soothing hand upon her daughter’s. “There, my love. You may wait another year before making your curtsey, if that is your wish. We have already settled the matter, have we not?”
Lord Tolliver blinked. “Have we?”
“Indeed,” Lady Tolliver said smoothly. “With Charlotte requiring rather… more attention this Season than most young ladies, my nerves would not withstand the strain of presenting two daughters at once.”
Lottie inclined her head. “It is touching to see my talents so widely recognised.”
Georgiana folded her hands neatly. “One may wait until eight-and-ten, or even nine-and-ten, Papa, if one prefers.” With a pointed glance at Lottie, she added, “Or five-and-thirty, if one is determined never to wed.”
Lottie raised her glass. “I should rather be legendary than leg-shackled.”
“Nevertheless,” Lady Tolliver interjected, “you shall be reintroduced this year, Charlotte. I shall hear no disagreement.”
