“Stepmother. Bea’s father is here, too.”
“Isshehere? Beatrice… Bea? I like Bea better. Busy like a bee, which she must have been to catch Embleton in her web… do bees spin webs? Toils, then. Is she here?”
“No. She has recently married my cousin, Mr Bertram Atherton, and is on a wedding tour.”
Lady Euphemia’s mouth opened so wide she could have swallowed an entire Bath bun.“No!Embleton offered for her, and now she is married… to your cousin? How did that happen?”
Olivia laughed. “In the usual way, I imagine. They decided, when they considered the matter carefully, that they would quite like to be married.”
Lady Euphemia looked startled, then laughed, a loud, honking noise. “You are funny, Olivia! May I call you Olivia? And you must call me Effie.”
“Oh, may I? For Lady Euphemia is rather a mouthful, and Effie is such a pretty name. Oh, what a lovely gown! That has to be the work of a French modiste.”
And after that, as Effie’s wardrobe emerged from its boxes, the conversation was entirely taken up by a discussion of the relative merits of sarsenet, lustring and Persian silk, whether tippets were in style or completely exploded, the minimum number of pairs of dancing slippers required for the exigencies of the season and many other topics of a similar fascinating nature.
***
When Olivia entered the drawing room that evening, arrayed in her very best gown for Lord Embleton, arm in arm with her new friend, she had no thought beyond the marquess. It was therefore something of a disappointment that he had not yet arrived. Instead, she saw several familiar faces. Lord Grayling and his sister smirked at her from one side of the room, and from the other, Osborn smiled and waved to her.
The two girls were immediately under siege from the bachelors present, at least those from the Bucknell family. Not that any of them were very promising, either as marriage possibilities or as flirts, for in appearance they were either railthin or tended to stoutness, none were handsome or witty, and being distant cousins or younger sons meant their prospects were poor. Lady Esther had already warned Olivia not to encourage any of them, and she had likewise informed Effie.
“I do not care two straws for their eligibility,” she had said airily, “so long as they can flirt amusingly. Flirting is so much fun, do you not agree?”
Now, while she sparred with one or two of the Bucknell men, perhaps as a warming up exercise, she was also looking about her for more promising material. Olivia watched her anxiously, but although Effie’s gaze lingered on Osborn, who was still smiling winningly in their general direction, she settled in the end on Lord Grayling.
“Who is the Adonis?” she whispered to Olivia.
“Lord Grayling.”
“Indeed? He has that look in his eye. Very promising. Will you introduce me?”
This took very little effort, for Lord Grayling was already ambling across the room with the same objective in mind, his eyes fixed on Effie. Almost before the introductions had been concluded, he escorted Effie to an empty sofa and said something which made her lower her eyes and tap him reprovingly on the arm with her fan.
“Good evening, fair ghost,” murmured a voice at Olivia’s shoulder.
“Osborn! I did not expect to see you here, or the Graylings, either.”
“The invitation was a pleasant surprise. I believe Miss Bucknell is indulging in a spot of match-making. She was whispering with the Graylings as I was leaving earlier, then she invited me to dinner and here they are, too. She steered me towards Miss Grayling as soon as I arrived.”
“She is very pretty,” Olivia said. “All those blonde curls! I imagine she does not have to sleep in curling papers, or singe her hair with irons to induce a slight twist, which drops out within the hour. Straight hair is a great trial to a lady.”
“Your hair curls very prettily,” he said, lifting a strand from one side of her face and winding it round his fingers. “Very prettily indeed.”
“You cannot imagine how long it takes to make it do so, whereas a man need only run a comb through his locks to be ready. Or perhaps not even that,” she added, looking up in amusement at his wayward coiffure.
He laughed, and shook his head. “Ah, the innocence of youth! I would wager it takes my valet longer to arrange my hair than it takes your maid to arrange yours.”
“Really, Osborn, do not dignify that disorderly mess with the epithet‘arrangement’.You look as if you have been dragged through a hedge backwards.”
“Which is entirely the intention. This style is known as the Brutus, a Brummell fashion, I believe.”
“Oh, him! Well, if Brummell does it, it must be all the crack, I suppose. My eldest brother, Walter, affects something of the sort, but I always assumed he simply fell out of bed looking like that, and forgot to brush it.”
The butler’s resonant voice stilled all conversation. “The Marquess of Embleton, madam.”
Olivia turned eagerly towards the door.
“I suppose you will not want to talk to me now,” Osborn said, with a rueful laugh. “I shall make myself scarce.”
