Page 10 of The Trouble with Tweed

The statue in the entryway gazed at her own reflection in the gilt mirror opposite, as she always did. Claire had mocked her brother William for needing to display his wealth with massive statuary, but privately, Claire liked the Grecian lady. She had a sad expression around her eyes, as if she’d already lived through hardship in her young years.

Claire could relate. Though her own skin was flawless and her appearance every inch the pampered noble lady, there was knowledge in her heart of how quickly things could go wrong.

As she passed the front parlor, a low voice caught her ear. Claire paused out of sight behind one of the large ferns near the archway and frowned. Was there a gentleman in the house?

The rasping voice murmured, “Your eyes are the stars. Your face is the moon. I’ve never loved someone the way I love you.”

“I’ll not be able to take this exercise seriously if the poetry is terrible,” Claire’s sister Margaret replied archly.

“You must manage your expectations. Your beaux might not have any experience writing verse,” her other sister, Beatrice, replied in a normal tone.

“Very well. Continue, and I’ll do my best to be affected.”

“You are luminous. Radiant. Your skin is as smooth as velvet.” Beatrice’s voice canted low once more. “I love you most ardently.”

“Thank you,” Margaret said solemnly. “I feel appropriately similar. You may meet with my brother in the morning and ask for my hand.”

“I will,” Beatrice crooned in a husky octave. “But first, please leave me with a token to seal our affection. Just one kiss, my beloved…”

“This is going to be exceedingly difficult to explain to our brother,” Claire said, emerging from behind the plant.

Both of her sisters jolted, their eyes comically wide. Claire blinked at Beatrice, who wore a paper mustache affixed to her upper lip. Both of them wore fine day dresses that suited their different shapes and coloring. Margaret was a short, voluptuous blonde. Beatrice’s form was light and lovely, her hair the classic Preston ash brown.

“Claire.” Beatrice frowned; her paper mustache listed dangerously with the motion. “How long have you been sneaking about?”

“Long enough to be confused, that’s for certain.” Claire yanked off her gloves and tossed them on a side table.

“We were practicing,” Margaret said stoutly, raising her chin. “For the Season.”

“What precisely were you practicing?”

“Saying no to our suitors, of course,” Margaret said, plopping down on the sofa and jostling Beatrice, who narrowed her eyes in annoyance. Margaret didn’t seem to notice. “We’re running through different scenarios in order to prepare ourselves.”

“I hardly think that Beatrice’s ridiculous sonnets are adequate preparation,” Claire said. “I think you’d be much more affected if a man you loved wanted to kiss you.”

Claire’s thoughts jerked erratically to the brief interlude she’d shared with Michael only half an hour prior before she yanked them away again.

“We thought it prudent to rehearse possible social interactions, the way one might practice a dance,” Beatrice explained.

Claire leaned forward and lifted the teapot; it was mostly empty and barely warm. She frowned toward the doorway. “Your sister, charming as she might be, isn’t going to woo you with the same fervor as a real man.”

Margaret sighed and slumped against the cushions, her great quantity of blonde hair fluttering. “Then whatever is the point of practicing?”

“There isn’t one, I’m afraid, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Claire said tartly. She crossed and pulled the bell to order more tea. “After all, you’ll have to make a man fall in love with you before you got to that part.”

“You’re terrible, Claire.” Beatrice jutted her chin. “Why shouldn’t a gentleman fall in love with either of us? Or both of us?”

“Heaven help this household if the same gentleman falls in love with both of you.”

Beatrice gave her a withering stare. “You know what I mean. Stop being purposefully obtuse.”

Claire sighed. “Any gentleman would be lucky to have either of you. My only point in saying that practicing is pointless is that you cannot possibly plan for what any given man might say to you.”

“That hardly helps my nerves—the idea that they might say anything,” Margaret moaned.

“Just be yourself. If you pretend to be other than you are, your husband will be terribly disappointed after you’ve wed. You’ll never be able to maintain whatever facade you’ve chosen indefinitely.”

“Is that your plan for the upcoming Season?” Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed. “To be honest and open about who you are?”