Seleste was in a deeply emotional, exceedingly public back-and-forth with the wickedly handsome and unfortunately impoverished Earl of Clare. They were the most dramatic pair Sophie could imagine, arguing in front of entire ballrooms as often as they swooned into each other’s arms. Seline, the second youngest sister, was courted by Mark Landry, owner of Landry’s Bloodstock, which was giving Tattersall’s a run for its money. Landry was crass and loud and hadn’t a drop of blue blood, but if he married Seline—and Sophie thought he might—she would be the wealthiest of the sisters by far.
The courtships drew constant public attention and commentary, and the young ladies Talbot adored the scrutiny, each doing her best to tempt the scandal sheets—much to their mother’s dismay. The sisters flourished under Society’s censure, every tut behind a doyenne’s fan driving them to more outrageous behavior.
All the sisters but Sophie, that was. At twenty-one, Sophie had always been the daughter whom scandal had avoided. She’d always assumed it was because she cared little for Society and their dictates and opinions, and somehow, Society seemed to understand that.
But now that the Duke of Haven was doused in water from the fishpond, with several pieces of freshwater flora stuck to his previously impeccably turned out trousers, it seemed that Society was no longer interested in leaving Sophie Talbot—widely considered to be “the quiet one” of the Dangerous Daughters—alone.
Sophie’s cheeks blazed as she held her head high and exited the greenhouse, pausing in the doorway, eyes scanning the crowd. They were all there. Duchesses and marchionesses and countesses, staring from behind fluttering fans, their whispers like cicadas in the suddenly cloying summer air. It was not the ladies’ response to her actions that was shocking, however. She had witnessed ladies gossip and feed upon scandal for years.
It was the men.
In her experience, the gentlemen of London cared little for gossip—leaving it in the purview of their wives as they turned their thoughts to other, more manly diversions. But apparently that was not the case when one of their own was maligned. They stared as well—the earls and marquesses and dukes—each title more venerable than the last. And in their eyes, in the force of their multitude, Sophie saw more than censure.
Loathing was so often described as cold; today, it felt hot as the sun. She lifted her hand without thinking, as though she could block the glowering heat.
“Sophie!” Her mother came rushing forward, her smile broad, her voice loud enough to carry through the throngs of whispering partygoers. The countess wore a gown of deep scarlet, which would have been scandalous enough if it were not topped with a ridiculous construction in the same hue that towered above her petite face, dwarfing her beauty in what she had been assured was “the height of Chinese fashion.”
Right now, however, Lady Wight was not interested in her hat. Instead, she bore down on her youngest daughter, eyes filled with what could only be described as panic, Sophie’s three middle sisters following like extravagantly dressed ducklings.
“Sophie!” the countess said. “What a scene you’ve made!”
“One might even think you were one of us,” Sesily said dryly, her impressive décolletage threatening to burst from the seams of her outrageous gown—exceedingly tight and bordering on garish. Of course, Sesily had the temperament to wear such a thing and appear temptation herself. “Haven looked as though he wished to murder you.”
I shall destroy you.
“I think he would have if we weren’t so very public,” Sophie replied.
“So unfortunately public,” her mother hissed.
Sesily raised a brow and brushed an invisible speck from her bosom. “And if he weren’t so very wet.”
“You needn’t point out your breasts, Sesily. We all have them,” Seleste said dryly through a gossamer veil of gold thread, cascading down her face and neck from a crownlike contraption.
Seline snickered.
“Girls!” the countess hissed.
“It really was magnificent, Sophie,” Seline said. “Whoever thought you had it in you?”
Sophie turned a scathing gaze on her next oldest sister. “What does that mean?”
“This is not the time, girls,” their mother interjected. “Do you not see that this might ruin us all?”
“Nonsense,” Sesily said. “How many threats of ruination must we face before you see we’re like cats?”
“Even cats have a limit on their lives. We must repair this damage. Immediately,” the Countess of Wight said before remembering where they were, on full view in front of all of London, and said, loud enough for all of London to hear, “We all saw what happened! His Poor Grace!”
Sophie stilled, the words surprising her. “Poor?”
“Yes of course!” Impossibly, the countess’s voice rose an octave.
Sophie blinked.
“You’d better go along with it,” Seline said casually as they crowded around her like great, gilded cormorants, all flapping fans and swinging tassels, “Or Mother will go mad with fear of exile.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Seleste said. “It’s not as though any of them would really exile us. They can barely keep up with us.”
Sesily nodded. “Precisely. They adore our wicked scenes. What would they do with themselves if they did not have us?”
It was not untrue.
“And we shall rise farther than any of them. Look at Seraphina.”
“Except Seraphina is married to a proper ass,” Sophie pointed out.
“Sophie! Language!” Her mother sounded as though she might faint from panic.
Her sisters nodded.
“We shall have to avoid that bit,” Sesily said.
“It’s clear that he slipped and toppled into the pond!” the countess shouted quite desperately, her wide blue eyes growing wide enough for Sophie to wonder if it were possible for them to pop right out of their sockets. A vision flashed, of her mother groping around on the perfectly manicured grass for her eyeballs, odd hat toppling from her head, unable to bear its own weight.
What a scene.
It was her turn to snicker.
“Sophie!” the countess hissed through her teeth. “Don’t you dare!”
The snicker turned into a snort.
The Countess of Wight continued, hand to her chest. “Poor, poor Haven!”
It was all Sophie could take. The laugh never came, because it was so stifled by anger. Her family hadn’t been the same since the title had arrived, making her mother a countess and her sisters not simply exceedingly wealthy, but exceedingly wealthy ladies, giving Society no choice but to acknowledge their presence. And suddenly, these women, whom she’d never thought cared much for the trappings of name and money, had cared very much.
They had never seen the truth—that the Talbot family could marry into royalty, and they’d never be welcome in Society. That Society suffered their presence because they couldn’t risk losing the advice and intelligence of the new earl, or the funds that came with each of the daughters. Marriage was, after all, the most critical business in Britain.
Sophie’s family knew it better than anyone.
And they adored the game. Its machinations.
But Sophie wanted none of it. She never had. For the first decade of her young life, she’d lived in the idyll that came from money without title. She’d played in the green hills of Mossband. She’d learned to make pasties from her grandmother in the kitchens of the Talbot family home, because they were her father’s favorite luncheon treat. She’d ridden her horse to town to fetch beef from the butcher and cheese from the cheesemonger. She’d never dreamed of a titled husband. She’d planned for a sound, reasonable future, married to the baker’s son.