Much Ado About You

Page 20

“I saw that,” Rafe said, putting a finger on her nose. “Lady Clarice would say that you exhibit a deplorable lack of tutoring.”
“Lady Clarice was quite right in ascertaining that,” Tess confessed. “I’m afraid none of us is very adept in the kind of comportment taught by governesses.”
“Then we shall discuss Miss Pythian-Adams at length tomorrow evening, after you’ve met her,” Rafe told her, lowering his voice a trifle. “I assure you that if you find traits which you desperately wish to emulate, I shall hire the appropriate tutors without delay.”
“That sounds like a very carefully worded insult. To her or to me, I cannot be sure,” Tess observed, turning down the corridor toward her chamber. “I shall be careful, Master Guardian, not to irritate you too much.”
He laughed.
Annabel was waiting for her. “He’s going to offer for you, isn’t he?” she demanded as Tess closed the door.
“Who?”“The duke, of course.”
“No, he isn’t,” Tess said, pulling off her worn gloves carefully so that she wouldn’t rip them.
“Oh pooh,” Annabel said, falling onto a chair by the fire. “The two of you looked as cozy as two bugs in a rug last night at supper, and I heard him laughing just now.”
“He claims to be uninterested in marriage,” Tess observed, “and I must say, I see no such inclinations on his part.”
“Thank goodness for the earl,” Annabel said, wiggling her toes before the fire. “I had fancied being Her Grace, but I am happy enough with countess.”
Tess bit her lip.
“Damnation!” Annabel said, narrowing her eyes. “You’ve stolen the best suitor in the house, have you?”
“Not willingly,” Tess protested.
“You’re lucky I hadn’t formed a tendresse for the man. I must have been born without a romantic bone in my body, which is remarkable good fortune. Just look how seriously Imogen took that dreadful Lady Clarice last evening.”
That reminded Tess. “I just told Rafe that we would join Lady Clarice and Miss Pythian-Adams in a trip to some Roman ruins tomorrow.”
“Botheration,” Annabel exclaimed. “I shall cry a headache. I don’t want to be seen in these dreadful clothes.”
“I suppose we could decline. After all, if Miss Pythian-Adams is half the paragon that Lady Clarice described, it will be humiliating for Imogen.”
Annabel shook her head. “If Miss Pythian-Adams is attending, then so must we.”
“Why? I should think it will simply be more difficult for Imogen once she meets this stronghold of lady like civility.”
“Stronghold? You’re describing her as a stronghold? Bad phrase,” Annabel said. “Perhaps Draven Maitland, impossible bounder though he is, will be struck with shock at the sight of his bluestocking next to our darling Imogen.”
“But I don’t want that! The last thing I want is Imogen to marry Maitland.”
“You, darling, are not the issue here. Imogen wishes to marry him, foolish though her desire may be, and I have not seen any good whatsoever from denying people their heart’s desire. Remember what happened to Mrs. Bunbury’s daughter?”
“Lucy? Lucy caught a fever and died.”
“Pish,” Annabel said. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you the truth of it. Lucy had caught a child, not a fever. Mrs. Meggley, in the village, told me. Lucy died in childbirth, and it was all because her mother refused to let her marry the fellow she wanted.”
“Oh, poor Lucy,” Tess said. “He wasn’t a fellow, Annabel. Ferdie McDonough was a good match for Lucy, and her mother shouldn’t have prevented them. Although,” she added, “I don’t see how you can blame Lucy’s mother for death in childbirth.”
Annabel waved her hand impatiently. “It’s not precisely the death that I blame her for. But when a woman’s as determined as Lucy—or our Imogen, for that matter—one might as well accept it. Now if Maitland truly means to marry this cultivated woman of his, there’s nothing more to be done about it. But given that charming little display of temper he put on last night, he doesn’t seem all that attached to Miss Pythian-Daisy, or whatever her name is. My guess would be that Lady Clarice put the match together and he accepted for the sake of the Pythian-Daisy estate.”
“Were he to back out of the marriage, it would mean a breach-of-promise suit, and you said it was terribly expensive.”
“The Maitlands can afford it. Did you see Lady Clarice’s gown?”
“I don’t want Imogen to marry Maitland,” Tess said stubbornly. “He would be a terribly uncomfortable husband. Just witness his attack of temper last night. I would loathe a husband with such a disregard for propriety.”
“Ah, but it’s only the lucky ones like ourselves who are able to choose a spouse for compatibility,” Annabel said, wiggling her toes before the fire. “Just think, Tess, once we’re married, we shall never have to wear darned stockings again!”
“I would never know yours are darned,” her sister said, squinting at her toes. “You do darn beautifully.”
“Yet another skill that I will gladly discard by the wayside,” Annabel said. “Along with accounting, gardening, and counting one’s pennies. Or ha’ pennies, as the case was with Papa.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so harsh about him in front of Josephine,” Tess said, sitting at the dressing table and beginning to pull pins from her hair. It tumbled to the edge of the stool.
“Well, Josie isn’t here,” Annabel pointed out. “There’s no one here but you, my dear, and I’m not going to start pretending to be in some sort of ecstasy of grief over Papa’s death. He never gave a twig for us.”
She said it so harshly—and that was so unlike Annabel’s normal style—that Tess bit her lip. “I think he loved us,” she said, drawing the brush through her hair. “He simply had trouble—”
“He simply loved his horses more,” Annabel put in. “But you’re right. I’ll try to preserve Josie’s tender sensibilities.”
Tess put down her brush. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry he made you do the accounting, Annabel.”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” her sister said, staring hard into the fire. “I wouldn’t have minded if he had given a thought to us, to our futures.” Her voice trailed off.
“He did think of our futures,” Tess protested.
“Not enough,” Annabel said. And that was true. Viscount Brydone had used his daughters to make his life more comfortable and refused to allow them suitors because he swore he would take them all to London someday, so they could marry in style.
“He loved us,” Tess said firmly, picking up the brush again.
“The important thing for me,” Annabel said, “is to find a man who doesn’t know a horse from a donkey. If Mayne has decided to court you, I’m in perfect agreement, since his conversation was a trifle too horsey at dinner last night. I would prefer that my husband is more interested in dancing slippers than horseshoes. So if you would like to marry the earl, Tess, please do it with expediency, so we can all go to London. I imagine he has a palatial residence, don’t you think?”