“They flock around the heir to the Malmsby Dukedom,” her brother said disgustedly.
“Yes, and so what? That’s perfectly natural in our society. That doesn’t sound like fearful behavior to me,” she scoffed.
He inhaled deeply. “Fine. Let me give you an example. Lady Mary Sudbury.”
Gwinnie nodded and crossed her arms over her ample chest. “All right, what of Lady Mary?” Gwinnie prompted. “She is in this year’s crop of debutants and has some distant relationship with Grandmother and to us.”
“She slightly attracted me,” he admitted, with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “I thought it was time I think about marriage and considered her a possibility.”
She frowned slightly. “I don’t care for your ‘slight attraction’as a reason for taking her to be your wife; however, choosing a wife would make Father and Grandmother happy,” she acknowledged.
He nodded.
“But what? Why did you not pursue her?” Gwinnie asked, opening her arms.
“I overheard her speaking about me with some other debutants,” he reluctantly admitted.
She shrugged. “Eavesdropping never pays toll.”
“I know. It was not intentional, I assure you.”
She sighed. “So what did you hear that has you all twisted up and ready to burst like a Christmas cracker?”
He felt a warm flush of blood creep up his neck to his cheeks. Certain subjects one did not discuss with women, particularly one’s sister. But he needed to make her understand. “They were talking about my size. Um, that is, my size relative to the marriage bed.”
“So what does it matter if your feet hang off the bed?—Oh!” Gwinnie blinked at her brother. “You mean how you’d fit together… or not?” she asked, incredulous. She started to laugh.
“It is not funny!” he ground out.
“Yes, it is,” she said, nearly doubling over. “Oh, the naivety of a debutant!” she crowed.
“They were truly concerned,” he protested, now angry with himself for admitting anything of that nature to his sister. The problem was they were twins and accustomed to being bluntly truthful with each other.
Lakehurst scowled at his sister as she tried to contain her laughter.
“I’m sure they were.” She waved her hand airily in the air. “I can’t see you with a simpering debutant, anyway. You, dear brother, are too worldly. You should seek out a bluestocking—they generally have a head on their shoulders—or look for a widow like Lady Darkford.”
“No.”
“Fustian,” Gwinnie said dismissively. “And I have left her alone downstairs too long whilst I pry out your fears—ridiculous as they are. I’m going back downstairs to join her. You need to come, too.”
“As soon as I brush my hair and clean the ink from my fingers.”
“Good. I shall see you downstairs,” she said, as she turned to open the door.
Oscar darted out past her into the old schoolroom and into the hallway beyond.
Gwinnie scowled after him. “You are not going to shed fur all over everyone, so don’t even think of it. Wait for me by the terrace door and I’ll let you out.”
“Gwinnie! Oscar’s a cat! He doesn’t understand you,” Lakehurst protested.
“Hmph. That’s what you think. I think he’s a little demon in disguise,” she retorted as she swept out the door and followed the cat down the stairs.
* * *
Waitingfor Lady Guinevere to return, Lady Cassandra Tidemark, the widowed Marchioness of Darkford, looked about the room. The only other time she’d been to Malmsby House had been the night of her brother’s betrothal ball to Ann Hallowell, the Dowager Duchess of Malmsby’s granddaughter, and she hadn’t had reason that night to enter this room.
Lady Guinevere told her, as she escorted her into the room, that it was her grandmother’s favorite space. With its pink, white, and gold ornamented walls and muraled ceiling, the shades of pink on the striped sofa, and the floral pink and green patterned upholstery on the chairs scattered about the room, the parlor had certainly been designed for a woman, Cassandra thought.
