Petunia smoothed her lemon muslin and smiled seraphically. “Oh, I simply thought I’d practice being a hostess. One never knows when a guest may arrive unexpectedly.”
“Oh, do stop the inquisition, Rosalynd,” Grandmother said from her perch near the hearth. “Let’s be grateful she’s practicing her manners.”
“Very well.” I advanced into the room to sit near my sister Chrissie, who was absorbed in a fashion periodical. “Do you have any idea what this is all about?”
“Not a clue,” she answered. “What do you think about this gown for Lady Stratham’s ball?” She pointed to a pink satin dress trimmed with pearls and lace—the sort of confection designed to turn every head in a ballroom.
“I thought you’d already chosen your gown,” I said.
“I had,” she replied, turning a page with a dramatic sigh, “but Lady Felicia wore nearly the same one to Lady Findley’s ball. I can’t possibly appear in a copy. People would think I have no imagination.”
“Quite right,” said Claire, without looking up from where she lounged on the settee beside Cosmos. “A lady’s wardrobe is her reputation stitched in silk. One must never repeat an impression.”
Cosmos frowned. “Men wear the same evening suit from one ball to the next, and no one cares. Why must a lady change gowns at every gathering?”
Claire’s fan snapped open, her eyes glittering with amusement. “Because women are judged by the clothes they wear while men are measured by the size of their purses, as well as other things.” Her gaze dipped, briefly, to a certain part of his anatomy before returning to his face.
Cosmos went scarlet to the tips of his ears, but still he grinned. Both reactions delighted Claire to no end, who let out a full-throated laugh.
Honestly, those two. Claire couldn’t help but tease Cosmos every chance she got. And Cosmos, well, he loved every second of it, blush notwithstanding.
Laurel, ever the reader, was immersed in a book as always. Holly and Ivy, the inseparable twins, hovered beside the cake stand, whispering about which pastry contained the most icing. Near a window, Fox crouched with a magnifying glass over the carpet, trying to coax a spark from a bit of sunlight.
“Fox, if you set the drawing room on fire, I shall not be pleased.”
“I only want to see if carpet fibers burn differently from linen,” he muttered. “Science requires sacrifice, Rosie.”
“Not in my drawing room it doesn’t. Cease what you’re doing this instant.”
He sighed heavily, but put away the magnifying glass.
The door to the drawing room suddenly opened. Honeycutt entered, a solemn expression on his face. “His Grace, the Duke of Steele.”
Cosmos and Claire froze mid-flirt. Chrissie gasped. And I nearly forgot how to breathe. “The Duke of Steele?”
Honeycutt bowed slightly. “Yes, my lady. Apparently, his grace was issued a written invitation.”
My gaze turned to Petunia, who sat very straight with a wide grin on her face.
“Petunia,” I said, “what have you done?”
“You said I couldn’t go to his house uninvited. So I invited him here instead.”
She’d figured out a loophole, the little minx.
Before I could summon a proper rebuke, Steele appeared in the doorway—tall, impeccably dressed, and entirely too self-possessed for the scene he’d walked into. For a moment he paused to take in the tableau—the entire Rosehaven brood staring at him with different expressions on their faces.
“Lady Rosalynd,” he said, bowing. “I believe I am expected.”
“Apparently so,” I managed.
Not one to miss her moment in the sun, Petunia rose and curtsied with perfect grace. “Your Grace, welcome to Rosehaven House. Do come sit next to me. We’ve scones, fairy cakes, and Assam, the tea you prefer.”
Amazed at that bit of knowledge, I asked, “How did you know that’s his favorite tea?”
She smiled with quiet pride. “I sent a note to the duke’s cook, of course.”
Good heavens! Next, she would be writing Buckingham Palace to inquire as to His Majesty’s favorite cake.
