“And you’re planning to do what, exactly? Demand she stop being ill? That seems counterproductive.”
Laurence stood and began moving toward the door with purpose. “I’m going to make a bold move. Tell her how I feel.”
Hugo’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. “You? Make a bold romantic gesture? Ashcroft, you once told a woman who declared her love for you that she had ‘abysmal taste in men.’ You made her cry so hard she had to be escorted from the room by her mother.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“She wasn’t Joan.”
Hugo’s expression softened into something like understanding. “Ah. So it’s like that, is it?”
“Yes.” Laurence felt a strange sense of lightness at the admission. “It’s exactly like that.”
“Well then,” Hugo said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Good luck, my friend. Although I have a feeling you might be the one who gets rejected this time.”
The kitchen at Fairfax Manor had been transformed into a scene of cheerful chaos. Flour dusted every surface, including several small noses. The scent of baking cookies filled the air.
Joan stood at the large wooden table, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, helping Percival carefully measure out sugar while Victoria worked with Imogen to roll dough into perfect circles. Edmund was in charge of placing the shaped cookies onto baking sheets, his tongue poking out slightly in concentration.
It had been four days since Joan had been to the hall and she’d decided to invite the children to her home to bake.
“Miss Sinclair,” Percival said suddenly, looking up at her with concern. “Are you certain you’re well enough for this? Your cold?—”
Joan felt her cheeks warm at the lie she’d told. “I’m feeling much better, thank you?—”
“She’s completely recovered!” Victoria interrupted smoothly, shooting Joan a knowing look. “The fresh air and rest did wonders. She’s fit as a fiddle now.”
The children visibly relaxed, and Joan silently thanked her sister for the rescue.
“I’m so glad,” Imogen said earnestly. “We missed you terribly.”
They worked with the children chattering amongst themselves as they shaped dough and licked sweet traces from their fingers.
“Miss Sinclair?” Imogen’s voice was thoughtful. “At the ball, you looked so elegant and beautiful. Like a real London lady.”
“She is a real London lady,” Edmund pointed out.
“I know, but I mean—” Imogen struggled to articulate her thought. “You looked like you belonged at grand balls and parties. Have you been to many? What’s the Season like?”
Joan exchanged a glance with Victoria, who was trying to suppress a smile.
“Well,” Joan said carefully, “the Season is… quite elaborate. There are balls nearly every night during the height of it. Garden parties, musicales, theatrical performances. Ladies wear their finest gowns, and gentlemen in their best evening clothes. It’s all very grand and formal.”
“It sounds like a fairy tale!” Imogen breathed.
Victoria laughed. “It can feel that way at first. When I made my debut, I was so overwhelmed by all the attention and excitement. There were so many rules to remember—how to curtsy properly, which gentlemen it was appropriate to dance with, how to make polite conversation without saying anything too intelligent or too dull.”
“That sounds exhausting,” Percival observed.
“It was,” Victoria admitted. “But it was also thrilling. The music, the dancing, the beautiful gowns—I felt like I was in a dream. And meeting new people, making friends with other young ladies, having gentlemen compete for my attention…” She trailed off, her expression clouding slightly at memories of what had come after.
“What about you, Miss Sinclair?” Edmund asked. “Did you enjoy your Season?”
Joan carefully shaped another cookie, not meeting the children’s eyes. “My experience was quite different from Victoria’s. I debuted when I was nineteen, but only as a formality. I had no interest in finding a husband.”
The children stared at her in confusion.
