“Oh, God,” I said. “St George, please. Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking of proposing marriage? Have you lost whatever’s left of your tiny mind?”
“Why would I have to have lost my mind?” He gestured to where Johanna was fluttering her eyelashes at Uncle Harold. They were exceptionally long and curly, of course. Just like everything else about her. “Look at her, Darling. She’s stunning.”
Of course she was. However— “Is that really all you’re looking for? Someone pretty?”
“She’s quite a lot more than pretty, Darling.”
Pretty enough that he had a problem taking his eyes off her, it seemed. I don’t appreciate people not looking at me when I’m talking to them, and my voice surely made it clear.
“What about the girl you swore up and down you were in love with last weekend? The one who was so important to you that you wanted me to forget all about her? She’s just out the window now, is she?”
He sent me a scowl. “It’s not like I can have her, is it? At least this,” another glance at Johanna, but this one didn’t stick, “is someone I can have.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” I told him. “She’s just as foreign as your other girl, isn’t she? And just as poor, too, probably. Surely your father won’t approve that? And from the way she’s looking at him, she might just decide that she’d rather have him than you, anyway. You could end up with a stepmother who’s a year or two older than you.”
And not just that, but a stepmother he’d kissed in the garden maze earlier.
My face twisted at the reminder, and so did his. “You’re vile, Darling.”
“Oh, am I? Would you like to know what I think is vile? For a woman to kiss a man in the garden maze, and then, less than an hour later, look at his father like she’d like to do the same to him.”
He opened his mouth, presumably to object to something I had said—what, I can’t imagine—and I barreled right over him. “That woman is a piranha, St George, and for your own sake, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay far, far away from her.”
Since no one seemed to be making any effort to sit down at the supper table, I flounced off, too, in the opposite direction of the one Aunt Roz had taken. Over to where Francis had engaged Constance in conversation, with a little help from Christopher.
They both seemed immune to Johanna’s glory, I was happy to see. Of course, with Christopher, that was hardly a surprise. She’s not even remotely his type. But it seemed my warning to Francis had done the trick, or perhaps he simply preferred Constance to her flashier counterpart.
It appeared mutual, too, as she was quite visibly blushing and dimpling under his gaze.
I hid a sigh. Now I’d have to caution Constance about Francis, I supposed, and unlike my warnings to both Francis and Crispin about Johanna, this one I wasn’t looking forward to having to give. I love Francis, and want all the best for him, but he’s perhaps not a great marital risk right now either, especially for someone so much younger and as innocent as Constance. She hadn’t experienced the war up close the way we had.
But that was a warning for another day. This wasn’t the right occasion for it. So I smiled pleasantly as I approached, and was reeled in by Christopher.
“Pippa.” He put out a hand, and I stepped into the group. He looked me up and down. “That’s a pretty frock. New?”
We live together, so he’s fairly familiar with the contents of my wardrobe.
“Constance’s,” I said. “We traded.”
He looked at Constance, and then back at me. “It looks better on you. And that—” The yellow dress, “looks better onyou.” This was Constance, who flushed.
“I have a feeling Johanna talked Lady Peckham into buying it so Constance wouldn’t outshine her,” I said, and ran my hand over the embroidery. “It’s a beautiful dress, but not something that stands out in a crowd.”
“Constance doesn’t need help standing out in a crowd,” Francis declared gallantly, and Constance looked half gratified, half appalled.
“Of course.” I certainly couldn’t disagree; that would be rude. “But the perfect dress never hurts.”
I caught Christopher’s eye. He looked amused, as well he should. My closet at home is full of gorgeous evening dresses in Christopher’s size. If anyone knows the impact of a beautiful dress, it’s my cousin.
Unfortunately, they’re all the wrong colors for me—pinks and pale blues and such, things that make me look washed out. Otherwise, I could have doubled my wardrobe in one blink.
“I saw you talking to Crispin,” Christopher said, and I rolled my eyes.
“We found him in the garden maze earlier, snuggled up to Johanna. I caught her sneaking into her room later, all disheveled, with her hair mussed up and her lipstick mostly gone. And now she’s over there, looking at your uncle like she’d like to have him for supper. I merely pointed out the futility of pinning his hopes on that.”
“I imagine that went over well,” Francis said, eyes lit with amusement. He looked fairly healthy tonight, not like he was under the influence of anything stronger than Constance’s company.
I made a face. “As well as my conversations with St George ever go. It ended with him calling me vile and me suggesting that he might brace himself for a new stepmother, before I walked over here.”
