“If that is what you really want,” she said, “then I will support you. But Clio … are you certain that’s what you desire? Or is it the only thing you dare ask for? I just … I worry that you are hiding from your true wants.”
Clio opened her mouth to protest … and found that the words died on her tongue.
Clio had been to too many house parties to count. She’d been to house parties galore in Belgium, a few in France, and one extremely long one in Germany during which she had received no fewer than three proposals of marriage and had gone home uncertain if any of those had been made in earnest or if they were all in jest.
(She had declined. Just to be safe.)
English expatriates abroadlovedhouse parties, loved to create little English havens where they all remarked that, no, sconesneverwerequite the same as a home, even if they were made with the same recipe, and where they eventually admitted that French pastries were superior all the same.
To this point, Clio had been too far, far more house parties than her brother, Aaron. Especially sincehehad spent his best socializing years either at sea or brooding in their country seat, then had promptly gotten married and spent the remainder of his time making cow eyes at his beloved wife.
It therefore galled that Aaron kept insisting on giving heradvice.
“Thetoncan be cruel, Clio,” he pontificated as the carriage rattled—bloody finally—up to the grand Metford estate. “Tongues loosen at house parties, and people become less rigid in their manners. It’s very likely that people will make comments to you.”
“Oh no, notcomments.” Clio feigned horror.
Aaron frowned. “I am just trying to prepare you.”
“You have been trying to prepare me for the past five hours! You’ve literally bored your wife to sleep!”
Clio jerked a thumb at Phoebe, who, she was pretty sure, was faking her slumber to avoid being dragged into the siblings’ argument.
“She’s not asleep,” Aaron said offhandedly, not sparing even a glance at his wife, whose eyes popped open in affront. “And I wouldn't need to repeat myself if you would onlylisten to me.”
Clio gave up. She simply gave up.
“Fine,” she said. “Bestow upon me your sage wisdom, oh great and mighty duke.”
If Aaron heard the sarcasm in her tone—and really, how could he miss it—he ignored it.
“Theton,” he said sagely, “will not forget the gossip about you, even if ithasbeen less present in the Society papers these past few days.”
This was true—and a blissful relief. A baron’s daughter had gotten drunk at a garden party and gone wading into the fountain to look more closely at the lily pads, which had distracted everyone from Clio.
“But,” Aaron went on, “we will be in a smaller company here. Which means that all the talk about that group will be amplified.”
I know. Clio bit back the words. “Wisely observed,” she gritted out instead.
Phoebe snorted quietly.
“This unpleasantness will continue until you are wed,” Aaron warned.Or I leave the country, Clio thought. “I will shield you where I can—” The annoying part about this was that he was being sweet, albeit in a remarkably high-handed way. “—but it’s perfectly appropriate to be nervous.”
Ah, scratch that. The annoying part about this was that Aaron wasright.
Cliowasnervous.
It was less about theton,though, and more about the Duke of Metford.
“Thank you, Aaron,” she said absently when she realized that the silence had gone on for too long. Aaron and Phoebe exchanged one of those knowing looks that married people had the irksome habit of sharing, and then Phoebe reached forward and briefly squeezed Clio’s hand.
There wasn’t time for any more, either in terms of advice or reassurance, however, as their carriage then reached the front of the queue and a footman opened the door to let them down.
The whispers started even as Clio and Phoebe stood waiting for Aaron to have his important man-to-man talk to the coachman about how proud they were of the horses, how well they’d earned their oats tonight, what a fine pair they made—all the things that men liked to say to avoid admitting that they held any actualaffectionfor the beasts. God forbid.
The members of thetonspoke over one another in a chorus of rudeness.
“—Can you even believe it? Not an hour back from the Continent and she finds herself?—”
