"By accident," June insisted. "But when I realized my error and tried to leave, he blocked my path. And he didn't remember me. Not at all. After all these years, after that humiliation, he looked at me as though I were a complete stranger."
"What did you do?" April asked, leaning in.
June's lips curved into a small, defiant smile. "I kissed him."
"You didn't!" gasped May.
"I did," June confirmed. "And then I told him I expected the kiss to be better, and I left."
April's mouth fell open, then closed, then opened again. "June, you absolutely wicked thing."
"I'm not proud of it," June said, though her tone suggested otherwise. "But in that moment, seeing him so smug and self-assured, knowing he had dismissed me so thoroughly that he couldn't even remember me... I wanted him to regret it. I wanted him to feel even a fraction of the humiliation I felt."
May adjusted her spectacles, a habit she'd had since childhood when processing shocking information. "And now he's returned your earring. Which means he knows exactly who you are."
"Or he's playing a game," June replied. "Either way, I am not finished with him yet."
"What do you mean?" April asked.
June straightened her shoulders. "I mean to make him regret ever forgetting who I am."
April and May exchanged a cautious look that June recognized all too well—the silent communication of two people about to meddle.
"Is that why you've been so reluctant to marry?" April asked carefully. "Because of what he said?"
"Of course not," June snapped, perhaps too quickly. "The duke's opinion of me has no bearing on my views of matrimony. It simply confirmed what I already suspected—that most of the ton's gentlemen are vain, self-absorbed creatures who value appearance over substance."
May's expression grew thoughtful. "Or perhaps his rejection wounded you more deeply than you care to admit."
June opened her mouth to protest, but May continued, "Either way, if you wish to make him regret his words, we shall help you."
"We shall?" April asked, then caught May's pointed look. "Oh! Yes, of course we shall. In fact, I think a little... diversion would enliven an otherwise stodgy house party."
"It's hardly stodgy," June protested. "And it's your house party, not mine."
"With Aunt Agatha and those three simpering debutantes from Kent in attendance, we can hardly stray from propriety," April pointed out. "But a little harmless amusement between sisters... well, that's another matter entirely."
Despite herself, June felt a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "I do miss our shared amusements."
May clapped her hands together, nearly dislodging her spectacles in her excitement. "Does this mean you will finally let us give you a makeover?"
"A what?" June stared at her.
"Look at your dress," April said, gesturing to June's serviceable grey muslin. "It's perfectly sensible for a damp summer afternoon, but it hardly makes a statement."
June glanced down at herself. The dress was practical, comfortable, and utterly forgettable—exactly as she preferred. But as she considered the look on Dominic's face should she appear in something more striking, something warm unfurled in her chest.
"Red," May declared, nodding decisively. "Or perhaps purple. Either would brighten your complexion wonderfully."
"And your hair," April added, circling June as if she were a statue in need of refurbishment. "We must do something about those pins. They're so severe."
"And proper shoes," May continued. "Not those practical half-boots you insist on wearing everywhere."
"And perhaps a touch of perfume," April suggested. "The French blend that Logan brought May last Christmas would suit you."
June looked between her sisters, their identical faces alight with anticipation, and felt a curious mixture of dread and excitement. The prospect of transforming herself solely to make Dominic notice her seemed petty, beneath her dignity. And yet, the memory of his dismissive words still burned like acid.
Thin as a reed, hair like unpolished brass, eyes too large for her face.
