Page 30 of If a Lady Lingers

The leader snapped her mouth closed and glared back. “That peacock, yes.”

“Hmm.” Now ignoring their reflections, she turned her attention back to coloring her lips. “Well, thatpeacockis one of the most charitable, kind-hearted, and fun-loving gentlemen I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.” To make the prick sting more, she added, “Well-respected, from an aristocratic family, and with a new fortune to match—you know, the kind of man unmarried ladies are desperate to throw themselves at.” Her gaze flicked back to them and gave them a look that said she found them lacking. “Simplydesperate.”

Two of the women glared at her, while the third was too dense to realize the insult behind Daisy’s words. Yet all three sat up straight, like cats brandishing their tails in readiness for a fight.

“A miss would truly have to be desperate to let herself be pursued by a man like that,” the leader countered, “regardless of who his father is or how much money he has. For goodness’s sake! That laugh alone is embarrassing, so is that toothy grin that stretches across his silly face. I would be utterly mortified to be married to a man like that!”

Another one piped up, “And the way he dresses—”

“Those colors are frightening!” The third woman forced a mocking shudder.

“Those colors brighten the world,” Daisy defended casually, paying them as little attention as possible as she reached for a puff and bowl of loose powder. “I’d rather have for a husband a loving and kind man who wants to spend his days spreading happiness and color than some aristocratic sheep in his boring clothes. I’d rather have for a husband a man who smiles and laughs than some formal, staid one. Even if he smiles a bit too brightly and laughs a bit too loudly, I’d rather spend my days smiling and laughing right along with him than being in a painfully proper but joyless marriage.”

The three women didn’t know what to say to that. Perhaps they were simply shocked that she’d dared to interfere in their little hate session. Or that she’d come to Whitby’s defense.

But of course she did. After all, even now, he would have come to hers.

She fluffed a light dusting of powder to the tip of her nose and continued, “I shudder to think how horrible marriage would be to a man who pretends to take no joy in the world—or worse, who truly doesn’t. After all, if a man can’t openly show his delight for the world around him, how would he ever be able to show his delight in his wife?”

The three were stunned silent for a moment. Then their leader stood and shot an angry glare at her. Daisy could see it from the corner of her eye but didn’t give the woman the satisfaction of looking at her directly. She would dismiss them just as they’d dismissed the goodness in Whitby.

“If I had to sufferthat buffoonand all the public humiliation he would bring to my marriage,” the woman declared, “then I’d rather be miserable!”

Daisy’s gaze shot to the woman and pinned her reflection in the mirror. “Don’t worry,” she warned in a low voice. “You will be.”

The young lady froze, then narrowed her eyes and seethed, “Howdareyou—”

“I agree,” a voice interjected from behind her. “So would every other married woman I’ve ever met.”

Daisy turned around on the little stool and lost her breath—

It was the woman who had been with Whitby. She’d slipped unnoticed into the room during their conversation and now leaned casually against the wall by the door.

“I’d much rather have a husband with a warm heart and bad taste in clothes than one with good taste and a cold heart,” the raven-haired woman continued. “Any smart woman would.”

Her bright gaze flicked across the room to meet Daisy’s, then returned to the three women as the other two scrambled to their feet, their faces flushing. The woman swept an assessing look over them from head to slippers, then sniffed and looked down to examine her fingernails. It was a gesture of such disdain that it couldn’t have been anything but a cut-direct.

The three young ladies realized it, too, and shifted awkwardly in their pastel pink slippers.

“Mr. Hugh Whitby is a good and kind-hearted man,” Daisy said, fully aware now that the woman who had been with Whitby was listening. “He’s considerate, charitable, generous to a fault—” She choked off. How hard it was to admit all that in front of the woman who had replaced her! But it was true, which made what he’d done to her so unbearable. She added quietly, “A woman would be fortunate to have his affections.”

“Yes,” the raven-haired woman echoed softly, but Daisy didn’t dare look at her then for fear she’d be able to read Daisy’s emotions on her face and see how much the woman’s comment wounded her. “She very much would be.”

Daisy pulled in a deep breath and leveled a hard gaze on the three. “So if I were you, I would stop talking about such a wonderful man behind his back and instead wonder what I could do to find a man like him to marry.” Dismissing them, she turned back to the mirror and reached for the powder puff, praying that none of them could see her hands shaking. “I think you’re wanted back at the party.”

With a loudhumph, the first woman tossed her head indignantly and sashayed from the room. She shot a burning glare at the raven-haired woman who remained right where she was, still casually leaning against the wall and watching with an unimpressed gaze as the three left.

The door clicked shut behind them. Daisy’s shoulders sagged. Goodness, she was relieved to have that over!

Until the woman sat at the vanity next to hers.

“You handled that well,” she murmured to Daisy as she reached up to fuss with one of her hairpins although not a single dark strand was out of place.

“So did you,” Daisy grudgingly admitted and pushed away the unneeded powder.

“Hmm. I’ve never liked mean girls.” She dropped her hands to her lap, no longer bothering with the pretense of fixing her hair. She charged directly to the crux—“Whitby sent me. He was worried about you.”

Her heart panged with a mix of jealousy and betrayal. “So he told you who I was.”