Charlotte smiled. “Do not be modest. It is your most impressive talent, after all.”
Eleanor forced herself to keep breathing.
Charlotte leaned back, studying her. “How long have you been planning it?”
Eleanor did not answer.
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed with delight. “Oh, you have been planning for a long time, have you not? Watching me. Waiting. Biding your time like a little mouse beneath the floorboards.”
Arabella made a small sound of protest.
Charlotte ignored her. “Tell me, Eleanor. When you imagined being a duchess, did you imagine it would be like this? You carrying trays and writing invitations while I ensure you do not embarrass yourself.”
Eleanor set the tray down carefully. “You are ensuring nothing.”
Charlotte’s smile thinned. “I am ensuring you remember what you are.”
Heat rose behind Eleanor’s eyes. She blinked once, hard.
Charlotte’s gaze drifted over Eleanor’s plain morning gown, the careful mending at the cuff. “Are you wearingthatto greet the modiste? How bleak.”
“It is morning,” Eleanor said evenly.
“It is your engagement week,” Charlotte countered. “You should be glowing.”
Eleanor stared at her half-sister. “I am not you.”
Charlotte’s laugh was soft. “No. You are not.”
Arabella’s chair scraped suddenly against the floor as she stood. “That is enough.”
Charlotte blinked, genuinely surprised. “Excuse me?”
Arabella’s cheeks were flushed. “You have been cruel for days.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “Cruel? I am realistic.”
“You are spiteful.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened, then sharpened. “Careful, Arabella.”
Arabella took a step forward. “You have spoken about Eleanor as though she were beneath you since we were children. You speak about her as if she is something to step over.”
Charlotte’s smile returned, slow and dangerous. “And yetshewill be a duchess.”
Arabella’s hands curled at her sides. “Yes. She will.”
Charlotte’s gaze flicked to Eleanor, then back. “Which means she will finally be in her proper place. Useful. Decorative. Quiet.”
Eleanor’s skin prickled. She could hear her own pulse, steady but insistent.
Charlotte’s eyes glittered. “Tell me, Eleanor. Does His Grace prefer his women obedient? Or does he prefer them–” she paused, pretending to search for the right word, “–desperate?”
Eleanor’s stomach tightened.
Charlotte leaned forward, voice lowering. “Perhaps he enjoys a wife who will do anything to keep him. Perhaps he will tire of you quickly once he realizes you have nothing to offer but–”
“Stop.” Arabella’s voice cut through the room like a whip.
