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Vicky looked up from her needlework. “Two different couples leads me to think it might not be so strange as we might hope.” She added a shrug. “Besides, it’s best to be prepared just in case. Those same two couples make me think that practicalities don’t always come into your mind when you’re in the throws of love.”
“Well, I for one never wish to be in the throws of love, thank you very much. And I most certainly have no desire to end up in some musty, dusty, ramshackle estate where I have to recover all the chairs with my needlework.”
Vicky shrugged again. “From what I’ve seen, love might make it worth the trouble.”
Hilaria shook her head. “You listened to too many of Nanny’s stories. I ignored them. I am much more concerned about the practicalities of life. I hate being cold, so there will be no drafty old mansions for me.”
Vicky just grinned. “That’s fine. I have nothing else to do anyway. And this pattern is growing on me. Perhaps needlework isn’t so very dreadful.”
“You’ve grown strange, Vick,” Hilaria said, but there was no heat in her words.
“Tell me about Eastwood,” Vicky prompted after a moment of quiet settled over them.
Hilaria shrugged even though her sister wasn’t looking at her.
“I don’t actually know much about him. He’s some connection of Wexford’s. Cousin of some sort. I wonder if his nose is out of joint that Wexford has married.”
“Not likely. Wexford’s younger brother is more likely for that role.”
Hilaria grinned. Vicky was such a peace maker. With a shake of her head, she continued. “I don’t even know why he was so insistent that I drive with him. I don’t much like him, and I thought the feeling was quite mutual. We certainly didn’t hit it off when Wexford introduced us.”
“Perhaps he’s the perverse type that needs everyone to like him and feels the need to convert you to his camp.”
“I suppose that’s possible, but he doesn’t seem to have anything else about him that makes one think he’s a puppy.”
“Well, except for those eyes,” Vicky said with a giggle.
Hilaria actually laughed, which felt strangely peaceful. It was so rare for her to laugh, but it was swiftly cut off by the loud rap of the door knocker.
“It would appear your chariot has arrived, sister,” Vicky announced with another giggle.
Hilaria lost patience with her sister’s laughter, rolling her eyes as a footman entered.
“His lordship, Viscount Eastwood, to see you, Lady Hilaria.”
“Thank you, Tom. I just need to tie on my bonnet,” she replied while striding toward the mirror.
“You look well,” Vicky complimented.
Hilaria didn’t bother responding. She looked acceptable, barely more. Their sister had gotten all the beauty in the family. Well, maybe not all, Hilaria amended as she glanced at her younger sister’s reflection while adjusting the bow under her chin. Vigilia wasn’t hard on the eyes. She would do well on the Marriage Mart once she took the search for a husband seriously. Hilaria was quite certain that her friend’s and sister’s weddings had distracted her from the search for a husband for herself.
But it never left Hilaria’s mind. As a young lady, it was fundamentally the purpose of life. To marry well and provide an heir for the next generation of a noble family.
She should have been the heir.
Hilaria squelched the despairing thought and followed the footman out to greet Eastwood.
“My lady,” Eastwood greeted, bowing low over her hand, barely brushing the back of her knuckles with his lips.
“Eastwood,” Hilaria greeted him back, just as sparingly.
With a light laugh, the gentleman held out his elbow to escort her down the stairs.
Hilaria was surprised to see he had brought a barouche. The large carriage required larger, stronger horses and didn’t move as freely. Most sporting young men favoured lighter carriages like a curricle or a phaeton. Hilaria wasn’t escorted so very often as Rosabel had been, but she had enough experience to recognize that this was a strange development. She raised her eyebrows at Eastwood as he helped her up into the carriage and then followed her in, allowing for his servant to do the driving.
“Are you dreadfully disappointed that I didn’t bring a sporting vehicle?” he asked with a chuckle, interpreting her questioning look.
“Disappointed would be far too strong a descriptor, my lord. I’m merely surprised. Most young men would consider this to be their mother’s vehicle, not their own.”
