art of polite conversation.’ He glowered with greater ferocity.
‘You suggested I discuss my churn.’
‘Before I knew there were baths involved.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Only as a source of water. Much like a puddle. There can be nothing inappropriate about a puddle.’
And now he wanted to laugh. ‘I believe you might be advised to heed your sister,’ he said instead.
‘And I believe that the music has stopped, my lord.’
‘What?’
‘The music has ended,’ she repeated.
This was true and the gentlemen were already making their bows and leaving the floor with their partners.
‘Moreover, standing stock still in the middle of the dance floor might cause comment which would not, I know, be appropriate.’
‘I’m glad someone hung out a moon for our special night,’ Rilla whispered hours later as she stared from the window of her sister’s bedchamber. She traced the white disc with her fingernail, the pane cool against her skin.
They had returned from the Thorntons’ ball a half hour since and Imogene lay reclining amongst the lace cushions on her bed, stretched like a contented cat.
‘Rilla, how can you talk about the moon? Did you not notice Lady Alice’s dress and her mother’s tiara? The diamonds lit up the room. Can you imagine owning such jewels? Those are the things I dream about—not moons.’
‘And I will dream of them for you. But the moon will do for me.’
‘And the gentlemen! They were most kind and made such pretty speeches. I cannot believe I was nervous earlier. Indeed, I cannot decide which I enjoyed more, the dancing or the conversation. And all the gentlemen thought me witty.’
‘With good reason, but...’ Rilla paused, turning from the window and picking up a hairbrush from the dressing table. She pushed her palm against it so that the bristles prickled her skin. ‘Do be careful. Not everyone is as nice as you suppose.’
This got Imogene’s attention. Her eyes widened and she propped herself upright. ‘Are you referring to someone in particular?’
‘Not really. Most of your partners were delightful—’
‘But?’ Imogene interrupted impatiently. ‘What is it, what do you want to say?’ Her voice took on a childish tone.
‘Well...’ Rilla tugged the brush through her hair.
‘You have some big-sisterly criticism. You disliked someone with whom I danced?’
Rilla paused. ‘Jack St John, if you must know. He was obnoxious as a child and has not improved since. Julie says he gambles and drinks.’
‘Lud, every gentleman gambles and drinks. Even Father—’
‘I know. That’s why—’ Rilla stopped, gulping back her words. Imogene knew nothing of Father’s debts. Or Lockhart’s involvement. ‘I mean, I just think you should be wary. Be polite, but—keep him at arm’s length.’
‘Goodness, I only danced with him.’
‘And joined him for lemonade.’
‘Lud, how dreadful. What should be my punishment?’ Imogene had now abandoned all lassitude and sat bolt upright, her fingers working at the lace trim of the pillowcase.
‘Don’t be foolish. I am only worried for you.’
‘Foolish? May I remind you that I have been reading the Tatler for years? It is perhaps you who are foolish with your Greeks and...and butter churn.’
‘My churn? My churn has nothing to do with this. I just wanted to warn you.’
‘I don’t need your warnings.’
‘Obviously.’ Rilla pushed her hair back from her forehead and dropped the brush with a clatter on to the dressing table.
What a mess. She should have known not to mention the matter while Imogene was both tired and excited from the ball. Likely she was still raw from that moment of nerves earlier. Besides, who was she worried for—Imogene or herself?
Imogene had not been the subject of Lockhart’s insidious comment about ‘odd tales’.
Imogene had not heard voices in the middle of a dance.
Imogene had not talked about baths or felt that peculiar, prickly, apprehensive, excited attraction to Lord Wyburn.
The silence stretched, broken only by the clock ticking and a branch tapping intermittently against the window.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rilla said at last. She was always the first to make peace. Her anger both came and went swiftly. ‘I’m fussing, as Mrs Marriott would say. After all, you could hardly refuse to dance with a neighbour.’
‘Thank you,’ Imogene said, still stiff, her gaze focused on the wallpaper as though much fascinated by the painted roses. ‘I certainly did not wish to give the earl any special favours. Besides you danced with Lord Alfred Thompson twice.’
‘I did,’ Rilla acknowledged, although the foppish Lord Alfred was a vastly different man than Lockhart. ‘Anyway we shouldn’t quarrel. It would be a sad way to end such a special night.’
‘True,’ Imogene smiled, looking away from the wallpaper. ‘Besides, the earl will be too busy with his own set. We will not see him much.’
‘You’re right, of course.’ Rilla stood and, blowing her sister a kiss, left for her own chamber.
But once alone, Rilla felt her body wilt with exhaustion and her spirits drop to an oppressive low.
She would feel better after a night’s rest, she thought, as she kicked off her slippers. Yet, despite exhaustion, sleep did not come. Her thoughts jumped and flitted.
There was Lockhart with his silky tones and innuendos.
And the viscount.
And her reaction to the viscount.
Worse yet, there was that soft, desperate voice and her own growing conviction that Lord Wyburn was connected to that voice.
All of which meant, she should avoid him. She should not dance with him or chat about Romans, Greeks, butter churns or any other topic for that matter.
And yet she could not stop seeing him. He was Lady Wyburn’s stepson.
Even worse, she did not think she even wanted to...
* * *
Apparently a Wyburn soirée took as much preparation as Hannibal’s invasion, minus the elephants. Shortly after the ball, Lady Wyburn had decided to follow on this success with a dinner in the girls’ honour.
‘It would be just the thing. We will invite anyone who is anyone, which is an extremely confusing phrase because really everyone is someone, at least in their own mind. Besides, we don’t want people to forget you.’
‘Highly unlikely. We drink tea with the same people every afternoon,’ Rilla said.
‘I meant the gentlemen, my dears.’
On the day of the event, the girls watched the bustling of all manner of servants and trades people. Florists trooped in, housemaids swept and polished so that lemon wax perfumed the air and Lady Wyburn rushed about, her grey ringlets dishevelled and her forehead shining with perspiration.
‘I thought the house already immaculate,’ Rilla whispered to Imogene as they looked over the banisters into the front hall.
‘Indeed, and Lady