“He must have been very brave,” she offered. “And your mother must have been proud.”
Mr. Carson turned his gaze to her again. “Yes, she must have been proud,” he agreed in a low voice. After a brief hesitation, he smiled. “Tell me, what is the first step in going out into London’s grand social Season?”
She realized he didn’t wish to speak about his personal life any further. Beatrice glanced at Amity. “I suppose we should ask you.”
In turn, Amity looked at her husband. “Shall we start with a ball here or accompany them to an event elsewhere?”
The duke smiled. “You sound as if you’re dreading it, my love.”
Beatrice knew how her sister felt, like a fish out of water. Neither of them could have imagined they would be seated in a grand house with Amity as the mistress. And her sister had no more clue what to do than she did.
“Not dreading exactly, “Amity said. “I am glad I have you by my side and that Beatrice has Mr. Carson. I don’t know how those young debutantes handle it alone.”
With an expression of solemnity, the duke said, “Those debutantes have been tutored and trained with all the dedication and efficiency of Her Majesty’s finest military. They are primped and prepared within an inch of their lives, and failure is not an option. Their mothers are usually a hairsbreadth behind, prodding them into the arms of each and every eligible man. They must dazzle while dancing, charm while chatting, and never,everbe found either dull or — far worse —unusual. Most of all, they must extract a commitment to marriage before letting the gentleman do so much as brush his lips against hers.”
He sipped his wine as Beatrice and the others remained silent, staring at him, the font of all aristocratic knowledge, as well as all things to do with the peculiarities of the London Season.
Then the duke looked at Mr. Carson. “As for the men, they must out-swagger, out-dance, and outflank every other man in the room. At the same time, they must appeal in a slightly wicked, swaggering way to the debutante, while seeming as unthreatening as a safe old slipper to the mother. Every female is trying to outshine her competition, and each man is attempting to be king of the Season. It is all-out war, I tell you.”
Beatrice blinked at her sister, and even Mr. Carson appeared unsettled by this description.
Then the duke cracked a smile, dimples and all. He leaned back, closed his eyes and laughed. He laughed so hard, Beatrice thought his chair might tip over backward.
At first, none of them joined in, merely watching him. Slowly, however, they started to release the palpable tension his alarming words had engendered.
When her husband opened his eyes and looked at his guests, Amity asked, “So you were speaking in jest, Henry?”
He shook his head. “Oh, no, it’s all true. Absolutely! I am only relieved — thrilled in fact! — not to have a fervid interest in any of it anymore. I have captured my prize.” He glanced at Amity and their gazes locked. “I can dance with my lovely wife and not have to play a part in the machinations, except as I wish. It is bliss actually, and I shall enjoy myself immensely.”
Beatrice waited, but he remained staring at her sister as if no one else were there. After a moment, she tapped her wine glass with her fork to break the spell and regain the duke’s attention. He turned his head slowly, and then his eyes refocused on her. He smiled.
“It’s all true?” Beatrice repeated. “We don’t simply go to dance and drink champagne? Mr. Carson and I have to partake of this ludicrous war between the sexes?”
“And take on the mothers?” the American added, looking a little shaken.
The duke shrugged, and Amity, with those rich brown eyes that had skipped Beatrice and gone to Charlotte, looked pityingly upon them both.
“And don’t mention Scotland,” the duke added, speaking again to Mr. Carson, “or the young ladies’ mamas will think you’re trying to get their daughters across the border for a quick, unlicensed and unsanctioned wedding.”
Mr. Carson nodded at this advice, then he glanced at Beatrice. “Do not worry, Miss Rare-Foure. I doubt it can be as daunting as entering a saloon in Spring City that has just run out of whiskey.”
She nodded. That did sound like a harsh reality. “Or as crushing as being told by a snout-nosed lady that she doesn’t deign to speak with shopgirls, and I must speak only to her servant.”
“Outrageous,” the American agreed, which she appreciated tremendously. It had been a surprising set-down, not the first but the worst, and she’d lashed out with a particularly nasty retort. Another customer had been lost that day.
“Bea, I can see where your thoughts are going,” Amity said, “but recall, you will be an invited guest, a duchess’s sister and a duke’s sister-in-law, and thus completely accepted, not a shopgirl disguised as a debutante.”
Accepted perhaps, but still a shopgirl and definitely not a debutante!
“What’s the classification for a femaleaftershe is no longer a debutante?” she asked.
The duke rapped the table with his knuckles. “Spinster, old maid, hag.”
“Henry!” Amity reprimanded, but Mr. Carson laughed, irritating Beatrice to no end.
“And she remains on the shelf,” the duke continued mercilessly, “probably because she is a shrew, a harpy, a—”
“Henry!” Amity exclaimed again, glaring at her new husband.
