“I just can’t quite believe it,” Imogen was saying, staring at Tess as if she had suddenly grown horns. “You’re going to be married, Tess. Do you remember how we used to fear that no one would marry us? Here we’ve been in England less than a week, and you’re already affianced to an earl. You should feel quite triumphant.”Tess found herself curiously uncertain when it came to thinking of herself as a married woman; she kept forgetting that the proposal had happened altogether. Definitely she didn’t feel triumphant.
“Our worries were connected to Papa’s inability to take us to London,” Annabel pointed out. “I don’t think any of us doubted our marriageability.”
“My new governess, Miss Flecknoe, would say that was an utterly improper comment,” Josie commented, raising her eyes from her book. “I can say that without hesitation because Miss Flecknoe finds any realistic assessment of relations between men and women improper.”
“I have something to say,” Imogen said. Her cheeks were flushed rose, and she was hugging her knees.
They all looked over at her, even Josie.
“Draven kissed me. He kissed me.”
“Are you referring to the falling-out-of-the-apple-tree story, or did you accost the man again?” Josie asked.
Imogen was clearly too happy to bother chastising her little sister. “He kissed me at the races. Out of the blue. I think he’s beginning to love me!”
“You show a touching confidence in kisses,” Josie said acidly, returning to her book. “Miss Flecknoe wouldn’t agree with you. She says that when gentlemen are agreeable they are invariably hiding ulterior motives. Although,” she added reflectively, “I’m not at all convinced that Miss Flecknoe has a clear understanding of the motives in question.”
“But Imogen, Lord Maitland is promised to Miss Pythian-Adams,” Tess said gently.
“You can say what you wish,” Imogen said, with a toss of her head. “I asked him to accompany me to the track so that I could watch the horses more closely, and he did—”
“I knew you were behind it somehow,” Josie put it.
“The reason we were together is irrelevant,” Imogen snapped.
“Don’t tell us that your motives were not highly improper,” Josie taunted. “Why didn’t you go to the stables? You could have tumbled off a hayrack into his arms.”
“Josie,” Tess remarked, “your tone is rather distasteful.”
“We were walking toward the finish line,” Imogen said, “and Draven was saying such intelligent things about the horses we passed…you can’t imagine. I think he knows everything there is about horses. And then he decided to put fifty pounds on a filly in that very race. The book-maker took his money, and it seemed only a moment later—he’d won! And then he kissed me, because he said I was good luck.”
Tess bit her lip, trying to think what to say, but Annabel waded in. “Draven Maitland is the very image of Papa, Imogen. Are you quite certain that you would wish to spend the rest of your life talking about fillies and watching your husband throw all the money in the house at the track?”
“He’s not in the least like Papa,” Imogen said, hugging her knees.
“Actually, I believe Imogen has a point,” Josie said. “Father would not have wandered about the track kissing other women after he was promised to mother. He was a man of honor.”
“So is Draven! He was simply overcome by emotion,” Imogen protested. “He is utterly different from Papa because Draven actually knows what he’s doing when he bets. He has a system, you see, and he understands horses in a way that Papa never did.”
Tess leaned her head back against the bedpost and stared up at the deep blue canopy above their head. She wondered whether their mother had felt the same about her husband. Imogen’s eyes glowed with pride and adoration when she talked of Draven’s system and his knowledge of horses.
Even Josie seemed momentarily defeated. “Well, just don’t forget about Miss Flecknoe’s notion of propriety in your further pursuit,” she said, but her voice lacked sharpness.
“I gather you do intend to pursue Lord Maitland, regardless of Miss Pythian-Adams?” Annabel said, frowning at Imogen.
She raised her chin. “We are meant to be together.”
“In that case,” Tess said, “you might want to stop being quite so apparent. Don’t stare at the poor man so much. I’m sure you make him uncomfortable.”
“Stare at someone else,” Annabel agreed. “Make eyes at Rafe or Mr. Felton, if you have to. Jealousy can be a powerful motivator in a man. And Josie, please do not inform Miss Flecknoe of the particulars of this conversation.”
“I will try not to regard Draven more than—than once in a great while,” Imogen said. Her tone indicated a certain doubt in her own abilities, but Tess decided to let it pass.
“Tess is marrying the earl,” Annabel said briskly. “Imogen is pursuing Lord Maitland, and Josie is happy in the schoolroom.”
“Happy is overstating the case,” Josie corrected her. “No one could be precisely happy with Miss Flecknoe hounding one from morning to night. She’s dreadfully fearful about the horrid habits I have developed, because of growing up without a governess.”
“Such as what?” Tess asked, with some interest.
“Reading,” Josie said with a sniff. “She thinks reading is an anathema. If Miss Flecknoe had any idea that Imogen was accepting kisses from Lord Maitland, she would likely have to do a ritual exorcism.”
“Well, one of us must needs grow into a proper and decorous young lady,” Annabel said, “and it’s too late for the rest of us, so you had better do it. Just to prove my unseemly nature, I might as well tell you that I’ve been doing little else than think about what Lady Griselda said of Mr. Felton—to be specific, of his fortune—and it’s my belief that I am making progress in his esteem.”
“You needn’t marry Mr. Felton,” Tess said. “I’m quite certain that Mayne will sponsor you onto the season, if you don’t wish to stay with Rafe and Lady Griselda, who also seem eager to chaperone you.”
“Yes, but Mr. Felton is here,” Annabel said. “What if I find that Lady Griselda is right, and Mr. Felton is the best catch in London, and I’ve wasted my time?”
“Mr. Felton has no title,” Tess pointed out, “and you have been saying for years that a title was of vital importance to you.”
“I shouldn’t have been so finicky. The truth is that money is the only really important currency in the world.”
“I think you should wait for the season,” Tess said. “There’s no need for such a sacrifice.”
“What sacrifice?” Annabel said with an easy shrug. “I am not the sort of woman to find myself hopelessly attracted to a slender, artistic young man, and Mr. Felton has a—”
“Miss Flecknoe would not approve of whatever you are about to say,” Josie observed, raising her eyes from her book again.
“Pray, don’t repeat it to her,” Annabel said. “I was merely going to point out that while I would find it difficult to admire a willowy husband, Mr. Felton’s physique is muscular rather than otherwise; his figure is admirable, and he has not lost his hair. And I rather like the tawny-haired look of him. It would be like having a pet lion around the house.”