“You caught me in the nick of time,” Lady Clarice was shrilling as she held out her hand to be kissed by their guardian. “I was just off to London to see my mantua-maker when I received your summons. Luckily, I judged your state more desperate than mine! And these must be your wards.”
Lady Clarice was wearing a dress more gorgeous than any garment Imogen had ever seen. It was fashioned of twilled sarsenet in a rich crimson with three rows of rib-band trimming shaped into small wreaths along the hem.
They were all wearing horrid mourning gowns, of dull bombazine with only a narrow strip of white lace lining the neck, and that the gift of the seamstress in the village, who said that she couldn’t see her way to sending them off to the wilds of England without a bit of trimming, and never mind that they couldn’t pay.
Lady Clarice had lace flying from her hair and trimming her hems and her reticule, but she had a sharp face to go with all that decoration. Imogen blinked, pushing away that thought. She was Draven’s mother.
As she and Tess sank into deep, demure curtsies, Imogen looked at Draven’s boots. Even his boots were beautiful, of a rich, brown leather that looked as shiny and perfect as himself.
“Allow me to present my ward, Miss Essex,” the duke was saying, “and one of her sisters, Miss Imogen. We are all tremendously grateful for your assistance.”
Lady Clarice peered at them as if they were curiosities in a traveling circus. “I can’t imagine what your father was thinking to send you here without—” she half shrieked, and then paused as a thought apparently strayed into her mind. “But of course, your father is no longer of this world, is he? Then he isn’t thinking about chaperones. Best leave that to the living!” She beamed at them.
Imogen opened her mouth and shut it again. She would have to meet Draven’s eyes in a moment. He was betrothed, she told herself again. He had told her in as many words that they had no future together. But then—
“Where are the other two girls? You did say four, didn’t you? Holbrook,” Lady Clarice screeched, “do you have four wards or not?”
The duke started visibly and turned back from greeting Draven. “There are indeed four of them,” he confirmed, running a hand through his hair.
Tess beckoned to Annabel, who was standing to the side of the room flirting with the Earl of Mayne, and then to Josie, who was hiding behind the piano.
“Just look at these four young ladies!” Lady Clarice cried, once they were all standing in a line. “Exquisite! You shall have no problem whatsoever firing them off on the market, Holbrook. I would say that we can achieve at least a lord. Perhaps even higher, dears, perhaps even higher! One must think of these things in a positive light. Of course, there is some work to be done,” Lady Clarice continued, without seeming to draw a breath. “Their gowns are abhorrent, naturally. There is mourning, my dears, and then there is mourning, if you understand what I mean. But the Scottish have no concept of dress and never have. These days I won’t even approach the border. Why, my hair quite stands on end at the thought!” She patted her gingery ringlets happily.
Josie curtsied and slipped back behind the piano, where she was pretending to shuffle through sheet music. But given that Papa had never had the blunt to hire a musical tutor of any kind, Imogen—if no one else—knew that was a mere pretense. She only hoped that the duke wouldn’t think to ask Josie to play them something.
“A diet of hard-boiled eggs and stewed cabbage should trim your little sister’s figure,” Lady Clarice whispered loudly to Tess. “I was just the same when I was her age, if you can believe it! But look at me, I managed to catch a baron! You may not be able to look quite as high as that, but I think a lord is not out of possibility! Even the chubby little one should be able to make a good match, with the help of a modiste.”
Tess’s eyes narrowed and her mouth opened, but Holbrook was there before her, suddenly sounding quite ducal. “Josephine has a figure that many a young lady will envy.”
Lady Clarice gave him a liquorish smile and giggled. “Quite right, Your Grace. You mustn’t lose hope of firing off all four of them. There are men who prefer a poke pudding, as they say!”
Imogen could feel her spirits lowering. The hope that perhaps Lady Clarice would allow her son to marry for true love withered. Lady Clarice looked as if she hadn’t yet learned the meaning of the word love, and she certainly wouldn’t encourage the emotion if she had.
“But I must introduce my son!” Lady Clarice said, dragging him forward. “Although, darling girls, I must warn you that my darling is promised to another.” She giggled shrilly. “We’ll do our best to find you someone just as suitable, however. Miss Essex, Miss Imogen, may I present my son, Lord Maitland.”
Imogen curtsied, as did Tess beside her. She felt a delicate wash of color rise up her neck.
“We are acquainted with Lord Maitland, Lady Clarice,” Tess was saying rather coldly. “He is—was—a friend of our father, Viscount Brydone.”
Imogen knew her sister thought Draven was dissolute, and all because he was dashing and funny and too handsome for his own good, as their nanny would have said, back when they had a nanny.
Draven bowed, quite as if he had never shared a bread-and-cheese supper with them—and he had, time out of mind, because he was as horse-mad as her papa.
“I have known the Essexes for some two years, mother,” he said, but his eyes were holding Imogen’s. Her heart fluttered as if it were a bird caught in a cage.
“What? Oh!” Lady Clarice laughed. “You must have met each other when darling Draven hunts in Scotland, is that it?” Something guarded entered her tone. Lady Clarice was no fool, and the Essex girls were astonishingly lovely.
Tess caught Lady Clarice’s inflection and felt a wave of panic. If Lady Clarice even caught wind of Imogen’s abject devotion to her son, she might refuse to chaperone them, and then what would they do?
“I race in Scotland, not hunt,” Draven told his mother. He was bowing over Imogen’s hand now, and Tess noticed with a sinking heart that he was looking at her sister with some semblance of the passion with which she looked at him.
“I do believe that my son has a remarkable seat on a saddle,” Lady Clarice said, not seeming to notice (to Tess’s relief) that Annabel had rudely wandered off without bothering to curtsy and was now standing far too close to the Earl of Mayne and giggling so hard that her curls bobbed around her shoulders like corks caught in a back-wash. “Not that I can swear to this, because I abhor the out-of-doors.” And, when Tess looked confused, “Fresh air, Miss Essex! It’s ruinous for the complexion to attend those races, I assure you. I only do so under the strongest duress. Of course, my son loves my company so much that it means the earth to him if I do watch one of his horses sail to victory. So I sacrifice…I sacrifice…”
My complexion is clearly ruined, Tess thought to herself. Their father had been dragging them to races since they were able to walk.
“But I have ever encouraged dear Draven to follow his own delight in these matters,” Lady Clarice was saying. “I do like a man to have an occupation. Far too many gentlemen of my acquaintance sit about all day and never rise from their chairs at the club. They end up with very ill manners, I assure you. And it causes”—she lowered her voice “—a certain spreading in the derriere, if you follow me!” She trilled with naughty laughter. “Although I shouldn’t say such a thing to you, an unmarried girl, for all you are a bit long in the tooth! But not to worry, dear, Holbrook will put you on the market the very first day that you’re out of blacks.”