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So long as “this” was not any form of naked man.
With a smile, she obediently stepped up to the crate and peered over the edge at…
A rock.
It was big and square and white—impressively so, on all three counts—but still a rock.
On the other side of the crate, her grandmother stared at the stone, her hand pressed to her throat. “Isn’t that simply marvelous?”
Cassandra kept smiling and looked harder at the rock. She noticed that its edges were chiseled with patterns: ridges and scrolls and possibly…a pig? Good. Pigs were fascinating; she could discuss them for hours. But, no. Not a pig. Just a pig-like chip in a scroll.
“Sir Arthur brought it from Greece himself,” the duchess said breathily. “’Tis part of an ancient temple, he says. Sir Arthur maintains that classical statues and buildings were painted in bright colors, though most scholars insist he is wrong and that the unadorned marble is the most pleasing and authentic. A fierce dispute is brewing in the Society of Antiquaries.”
Cassandra pictured a group of old men throwing big white rocks at each other. “That sounds fascinating,” she said.
She followed the duchess to another crate and offered enthusiastic praise for an identical rock.
“I was never one of the bluestockings,” the duchess said. “Sherbourne would not have stood for it, but even he agrees that a broad knowledge of the world prevents a lady from becoming dull.” She smiled pleasantly. “Your mother was never interested in my advice on my granddaughters’ education.”
“Speaking of my mother—”
“Oh, look, there’s Sir Arthur now.”
Sir Arthur Kenyon was a robust gentleman in his fifties, who bore the hearty look of a man who reveled in outdoor activity. He strode into the room, quizzing glass fixed to his eye. Upon seeing the duchess, he performed a deep, gallant bow. The duchess responded with a gracious nod, her face touched by a girlish smile and an extra hint of color.
Now,thatmade the rocks more interesting!
“Well, Cassandra, my dear, it’s been lovely to see you,” her grandmother said, her eyes on Sir Arthur.
Cassandra’s mirth faltered. That was polite-speak, as Mr. DeWitt would put it. Translation: “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“I daresay we shall see each other again soon,” the duchess went on. “You will attend your uncle Morecambe’s rout this week, of course, and I shall send an invitation for my ball; it’s in less than three weeks. I look forward to seeing you there.”
With that, the duchess turned and started across the room, toward her beau and his big rocks, leaving Cassandra momentarily speechless.
“Grandmother! Your Grace!” she called, collecting herself and scurrying after her. “There was a particular matter…”
Her grandmother paused, her lips pursed. “Well, what is it?”
“It’s Lucy, she’s nineteen now, and it’s past time for her to enter society and, since you are hosting a ball anyway, perhaps you might be so kind as to—”
“Oh dear, I feared it would be something like this.” Her grandmother spared a quick glance at Sir Arthur before continuing. “Guiding a girl into society requires considerable time. You may think I sit around with nothing to do but wait for my granddaughters to rush in from the countryside and start demanding favors, but my schedule is full and I cannot simply abandon my other obligations to tend to your needs.”
“I didn’t mean…” Cassandra fumbled for a response. “There’ll be no court presentation. Merely if Lucy made her debut at your ball…”
“I don’t see why Lady Charles isn’t seeing to it.”
“Mama is unwell.”
“I see. Well, your father did insist on marrying her. But that was decades ago and it does not signify now.”
“Lucy is special,” Cassandra rushed to say before her grandmother could turn away again.
“What are her interests?”
Making trouble. Breaking things. Getting drunk and singing bawdy songs in the middle of the night.
“She is a renowned beauty. She excels at dancing and singing and putting together outfits and—”
