“The Dowager Pinches,” Mrs. Gilpe puts in.
Gwen gasps. “You didn’t!”
Father goes red, turning a glare on their housekeeper. He starts backing toward the house. “That was years ago. She wasn’t the dowager then,” he says, his voice cracking.
“Lord Havenfort’s right,” Mrs. Gilpe says mildly. “The late earl’s mother hadn’t yet passed.”
“Father!” Gwen squeaks, hurrying after him. The Dowager Pinches is almost seventy.
“We waltzed a few times,” Father defends, putting up his hands before slipping through the door to the solarium.
“Sure you did,” Mrs. Gilpe says under her breath, holding the door for Gwen. “Come along.”
“Father,” Gwen protests, hovering just outside.
“It’s time,” he says, dropping his indignance. He hangs up his helmet and turns to her with a raised eyebrow.
Gwen reluctantly steps inside, tempted to keep arguing. She thinks she could wear him down, given enough time. They both hate balls, and the Halyards even more. The season is wretched, and neither is happy to be back at the London house for four months of tea parties and discomfort.
“I’ll behave if you will,” Father bargains.
Gwen tosses her helmet at him. She highly doubts that. “You get to drink and gamble. Hardly a fair trade.”
“You’re gambling,” Father says, catching the helmet. “Think of every dance as a bet. Be charming and poised and the educated young lady I’ve raised you to be, and the payout could be enormous.”
Gwen groans. “That’s horrible.”
Mrs. Gilpe tugs the door shut and nudges Gwen forward. Maybe he’ll buy Gwen another pony if she keeps stalling. She did get her own landau last year as a consolation prize for ending the season without a match, again. Better yet, he could buy her a racing horse this year when she comes back husbandless. Surely after four seasons she deserves a racing horse. They could bet on it together.
“All kidding aside, you’re a beautiful, accomplished young woman, and I’m proud of you,” Father insists, taking her hand to drag her toward the foyer.
Gwen bites back a grimace. She hates when he gets sincere like this. Makes it so much harder to argue with him. “Father,” she whines.
“Give it a real try this year, that’s all I ask,” he says. “You deserve a husband, and I know if you open yourself up to it, you can find one. Any man would be lucky to have you.”
They reach the bottom of the stairs and Gwen hesitates. “You’ll behave?”
Mrs. Gilpe steps up beside her, sighing impatiently.
“Cross my heart,” Father says, starting to smile as her defenses come down.
“Fine,” Gwen says, tugging off her gloves to whack them into Father’s chest. “Let’s get this over with,” she says to Mrs. Gilpe.
Father gives her a playful bow, and Mrs. Gilpe takes Gwen’s arm. Gwen huffs but lets Mrs. Gilpe guide her up the stairs, back to hoops and skirts and a frankly disgusting number of hairpins.
The Earl of Havenfort, Dashiell Fredric Bertram, may be the best catch of every season, dubious reputation and all, but the apple doesn’t seem to fall close to the tree. For all Father’s insistence that if she lets down her guard she’ll attract a good husband, Gwen’s not so sure. Beauty and poise and accomplishment she can fake, but deep down, she knows she’ll make a horrid wife. She’s sure they can smell it on her, like dogs do fear.
“Just remember, the Halyards have the crab puffs you like,” Mrs. Gilpe says as she marches Gwen down the second-floor hallway to her room.
Gwen laughs, startled. “That’s true. Want me to bring you some?”
Mrs. Gilpe purses her lips, reluctant to agree as they come into Gwen’s room. Her lady’s maid, Mrs. Stelm, is already waiting with the hoops and corset and makeup all laid out.
“Please do,” Mrs. Stelm says. Mrs. Gilpe throws up her hands. “What, you don’t want any?” she asks, grinning at Mrs. Gilpe, green eyes bright with mirth.
“You’re all incorrigible,” Mrs. Gilpe says, spinning Gwen around to strip her out of her fencing uniform.
“We try,” Gwen says, winking at Mrs. Stelm, who giggles in return, ignoring Mrs. Gilpe’s frown.
