Again an approving look. “Precisely. Especially with the way fashion goes at the moment, with excessive trimming wherever it can be tacked on. Simpler by far to ignore the changes and carry on as one wishes.”
“I should continue in the current style for the rest of my life?” Ariana asked. “But what if a new fashion comes along that I prefer? Pantaloons for ladies, for example.”
The lorgnette was raised again. “Are you a revolutionary?”
“Would it be revolutionary for women to sometimes be free of skirts? When working in the fields, for example?”
“As I don’t suppose you intend to trudge the fields in the next few weeks, that hardly matters. Dress as you wish for the rest of your life, Ariana, but you’ll dress suitably for your current purpose.”
Ariana said, “Yes, ma’am,” with only spurious contrition.
“Something of a minx, are you? Remember that our purpose is to see you married, as suitably and comfortably as possible, by the end of the year, thus compelling your brother to produce legal progeny. Conceal any eccentricities until the vows are said.”
“I can hardly conceal my height.”
“That is not an eccentricity. It is fate.”
Clearly Lady Cawle saw six feet as exactly the barrier it was, but Ariana could hardly fault her for accepting reality. As Lady Cawle and her mother discussed social details, Ariana took a closer look at the pictures on the wall.
She suspected a man in a gray wig was the deceased Lord Cawle, and a fresh-faced young man the current one. She knew that Lady Cawle had held on to the familytown house when widowed, forcing her son and his growing family to live elsewhere.
And why not? Why should a widow lose everything? Why couldn’t her mother have Boxstall Priory for life, which would at least keep it safe from Uncle Paul?
Another portrait froze her wandering thoughts. Classically handsome features, deep blue eyes, and a close cap of dark, curly hair. Surely it was the Earl of Kynaston, just as she remembered him!
“Lord Kynaston,” Lady Cawle said, having noticed her attention. “Handsome fellow. Perhaps you met him eight years ago.”
Ariana wanted to deny it, but would Lady Cawle remember that they’d danced?
“I’m not sure,” she lied. “Did he play the lute?”
“An oddity like that makes a person memorable. He’s my nephew. Not around at the moment.”
Thank heavens for that! Even a painted portrait had unsettled her, and not just with uncomfortable memories. It seemed as if he were looking at her, assessing her even, which tempted her to sink into the nearest chair before her legs gave out and ply her ornamental fan.
Lady Cawle’s nephew!
“Not around at the moment” could imply that he frequently visited. Thank heavens even more that they’d be in this house for only a few days.
“Next to him’s my daughter, Clara. Pigeon-brained, but I steered her into marriage with another dimwit and they seem happy enough. Bear that in mind, gel. Choose a mental match. Now, let’s dine.”
•••
The meal was more enjoyable than Ariana had expected. The food was excellent and Lady Cawle an adeptconversationalist. Some of her anecdotes were slightly scandalous, but to Ariana’s surprise, her mother made no objection. In fact, she seemed to be enjoying herself.
When they retired to the drawing room, brandy was served as well as coffee. Ariana and her mother declined, but Lady Cawle sipped from her glass as talk turned to the matter in hand.
“I sent you a list of tall gentlemen, Ariana, but consider temperament as well as height. Looks fade, but temperament is for life, and often intensifies with age. The charmingly impetuous young man can become an erratic disaster. The romantically protective can become a tyrant.”
“Surely some men improve with age,” Ariana said.
“From callow youth, yes. But not from thirty onward.”
“Then I shall marry under thirty,” Ariana said, “and improve my husband as necessary.”
Lady Cawle considered her. “Quite possibly you could.”
Ariana wished she weren’t blushing. “I was funning, ma’am. I don’t have the knack of managing men.”
