Page 11 of The Trouble with Tweed

“Of course,” Claire lied.

It wouldn’t do to tell them that the rules that applied to them didn’t apply to her, not any longer. Her sisters could dally on the marriage mart—their proverbial clocks would start as soon as they were presented. Claire’s clock had four years on it already. She couldn’t risk entering the Season without a plan.

“Then you’re sure to remain unmarried,” Beatrice muttered.

A small barb of hurt lodged in Claire’s gut before she could swat it away. Things had been different between her and Beatrice as of late. The usual sisterly banter had taken on a new, honed edge.

Margaret swatted at Beatrice. “That’s unkind. Claire’s just as pretty as you are. I’m the one who’s probably going to be a spinster, but I’ve already made peace with it.”

Margaret was shorter and fuller-figured than her sisters. Of the ten Preston siblings, she was also one of only two blondes. Her curvaceous frame and light hair set Margaret apart, and she felt the difference keenly.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Claire said. “There’s no accounting for taste. If I learned only one thing from my first Season, it’s that you cannot guess at the outset who’ll find a match, and who won’t.”

“Except for Lily,” Beatrice said.

“Except for Lily,” Claire repeated with a nod.

It was a small island of agreement the three of them shared—that Lily was the sweetest and most beautiful of the eldest Preston sisters. If no gentleman in England was smart enough to fall in love with Lily her first Season, in Claire’s opinion, the future of the entire country was doomed.

A maid set a new tea tray upon the low table and cleared the other. Claire poured herself a cup. She sighed in gratitude when she found it to be just slightly shy of scalding.

“Rachel says I should just do as she does when it comes to the gentlemen,” Margaret said, her mouth already half-full of biscuit.

“What tactic is she going to take?” Beatrice asked.

“If they ask her to dance, she plans on hissing at them like a wounded badger.”

Claire shook her head. “Rachel Warrington has made it very clear she doesn’t wish to marry. If you feel the same, by all means, follow her advice.”

“I don’t, which how I ended up here, with Lord Beatrice.”

“Don’t use that tone,” Beatrice said. “You thought it was a fine idea until Claire got home.”

Beatrice’s paper mustache detached and fluttered into her teacup; she fished it out with dripping fingers.

“You have plenty of time.” Claire patted Margaret’s knee. “If no gentleman appreciates what a catch you are in this first Season, there’s always next. There’s no pressure at all.”

If Claire intended her words to be soothing, they had the opposite effect.

Margaret sat up straight, her eyes wide. “No pressure? No pressure? There are already going to be four of us Prestons out this Season. And William has told us that he’ll call the rest of our sisters home from Paris so that they might be presented next year. If none of us marry this Season, there will be eight of us, Claire.”

“I can do the maths,” she said, sipping her tea calmly.

“Have you ever heard of eight young ladies from the same family descending a ballroom staircase? We’ll look like a flock of sheep coming down a hillside. William might as well invest in a pair of herding dogs to keep us all in line!”

Claire chuckled. “It’s a wonder you weren’t the one wearing the fake mustache, with that level of drama.”

“I’m serious.” Margaret slapped the sofa cushion for emphasis. “Some of us have to find husbands this Season or our family will be labeled as ridiculous.”

“Lily is sure to be courted widely; Beatrice, too.” Beatrice blinked up as if surprised that Claire would think as much; Claire ignored her and continued, “And I wouldn’t be surprised if you yourself had a line of suitors out the door.”

Margaret narrowed her eyes as if deciding whether Claire was mocking her. “I think not.”

“I don’t think you appreciate the service your new gowns have done you.”

Though Dahlia Warrington’s designs had accentuated each of the Preston ladies’ beauty, it was Margaret who’d undergone the greatest transformation. Suddenly, her curves were highlighted perfectly, turning what had once appeared stout and boxy into a nearly hedonistic shape.

“It’s true.” Beatrice nodded. “I think Dahlia was right—that every modiste you’d seen before had done you a grave insult.”