“Truly,” she grumbled at Angeline. “No one cares about Lord Rothbury’s jaw. Do cease prattling on about it.”
Beneath the shade of her hat, her friend’s frown was apparent. “Well, I suppose you cannot fault me for admiring my betrothed.”
“That was unkind of you,” Clementine added, giving Charity a gentle nudge with her elbow.
Guilt skewered her. “Do forgive me. I am merely feeling rather at sixes and sevens today.”
“Maybe you would prefer if we were discussing something truly intriguing,” suggested Olive. “The Romansphaera—”
“Oh dear heavens, not more Roman nonsense,” Charity interrupted. “You know I love you, but archaeology is the cure for insomnia.”
“That was also unkind,” Clementine added.
“You have a mark on your neck, Tiny,” she pointed out, feeling uncharitable. “The next time you and Dorset are sneaking about in each other’s chambers, you should be certain he makes his claim known in a place that is covered by your gown. Have I taught you nothing?”
Clementine’s cheeks went pink at the mention of her betrothed, the Marquess of Dorset. “How do you know we are sneaking about?”
Olive hummed. “It is not a secret.”
“You and your Mr. Prince are hardly better,” Charity could not resist observing.
“And a fine mood ye are in,” Raina interrupted, her Scottish brogue more pronounced than usual. “I ken ye are flustered after Lord Wilton kissed ye last night at the ball, but surely his kisses werenae that terrible?”
She scowled at Raina, who was the only one of her friends who knew thus far on account of the dare. “They were not terrible at all, and that is part of the problem.”
“You kissed the viscount?” Melanie asked, gawking at her. “I thought you said he was a bore and a killjoy.”
“I did, and he is,” she growled. “That is quite enough of this conversation, if you please.”
“Oh no,” Clementine crowed, the matchmaker in her likely brought to life by the sudden turn in subject. “Do not think you can be surly with your friends and then refuse to give us more details when we discover you have been kissing Viscount Wilton.”
“Do lower your voice, Tiny!” she snapped, nettled anew.
Clementine cast a frantic glance around them to make certain none of their fellow houseguests were nearby. They had rounded a bend, which gave way to an unobstructed view of the pond. And there, on the opposite bank stood the familiar form of one Viscount Wilton. He was fishing, flanked by two other gentlemen.
Curse her rotten luck. As if he had been produced from the wild imaginings of her mind, there he was.
“We require details,” Angeline said brightly, ever the ray of sunshine in their coterie.
“Yes,” Melanie agreed. “Beginning with when you kissed Lord Wilton at the ball last night.”
Drat her friends.
“Please do stop using the wordskissandWiltonin the same sentence,” she protested grimly.
“Why?” Clementine asked, her bright-blue eyes flashing with mischief beneath the massive brim of her hat. “Do you not like talking about kissing Lord Wilton?”
Her cheeks went hot.
“No,” she said, feeling quite disagreeable. “I do not.”
“But you have kissed any number of gentlemen in the past,” Melanie observed.
“Probably hundreds,” Clementine teased.
“Hardly hundreds,” she grumbled.
But definitely at least a dozen.
