he next morning came all too early. Lorelei snuggled deeper under the counterpane of her warm bed, willing herself back to sleep, but she’d grown up in the country and was used to waking early, no matter how late her head hit the pillow. Late being six that morning. She glanced at the clock. It was nine. Groaning, she stretched, then rang for a bath. She would never survive a full season of going to bed at six in the morning only to rise three hours later.
Tonight would be different. Tonight, she was to attend a production ofMuch Ado About Nothing. Aunt Isobel had her own box.
Lorelei took her time bathing, soaking her aching feet, not that she was allowed to mention such a forbidden topic. Thankfully, unless she encountered a clairvoyant, there was no one to call her out on her unmentionable thoughts.
It was another two hours before she made her way to the morning room for a well-earned breakfast.
“Good morning, Aunt.” Lorelei pecked the dowager’s thin as paper-skinned cheek and took her place at the table.
“I see you survived your ordeal,” she groused.
“My feet are another matter.”
“That is an entirely inappropriate subject for the breakfast table,” Aunt Isobel snapped.
Lorelei lifted her cup to hide her mirth.
Aunt Isobel grunted. “It’s not funny.”
“It is a little,” Lorelei said.
“Be that as it may, do not let me catch you saying anything remotely similar outside this house. A completely uncivilized and thoroughly debauched topic. By the bye, I’ve invited Oxford and the Maudsleys to join us in our box tonight.”
Excitement curled through Lorelei. “Oh, I can hardly wait to see a live performance. The closest I’ve ever been to theater is the village children enacting The Nativity at the rectory every year.”
Aunt Isobel’s tightened lips softened into a slight curve. It was nearest thing to a smile Lorelei had seen from her thus far. “You are in for a treat then.”
A pounding down the stairs echoed in the hall outside the Morning Room and thirteen-year-old Brandon, Viscount Harlowe, burst through the doors.
“Child! We donotrun in the house.”
“Yes, ma’am.” All gangly legs and arms, he almost tripped on the chairs legs and plopped across from Lorelei. “There’s bunches of flowers in the hall, Lore. Are they all for you?” His voice had that cracked hoarse quality prevalent to a boy on the brink of maturity.
“Of course, they are for her.” Aunt Isobel’s dislike of men apparently extended to boys as well.
Goodness. She’d never received that many before. “How many bouquets are there?” Lorelei asked.
He shrugged. “Four. Maybe five.” He glanced at their aunt and sunk lower in his chair.
Her brother’s forlornness pricked at her.
“Sit up, boy,” Aunt Isobel snapped.
Lips compressing, Lorelei glared at the dowager, for all the good it did. She and Brandon hadn’t spent a moment together since arriving. “Would you like to walk to the park, Bran? We could take our sketchpads.”
“No going to the park for you, Lorelei. Gentlemen will be stopping by for their morning calls. You must remain available.”
Brandon scowled.
Lorelei caught his eye and gave her head a little shake. “Then we’ll take our sketchpads to the library and work in there until I am summoned,” she said firmly.
Aunt Isobel grunted.
Lorelei took that as an assent.
Brandon’s mulish pout cleared from his face. “I suppose that’ll be all right,” he said, clearly unable to keep the same from his voice.
Lorelei couldn’t wrap her head around all the flowers in the foyer. Six vases! Did that make her a success? Certainly, she’d never received more than one bunch when she’d been at Spixworth. She pulled each card, read the signature, and poked them back within the foliage. Disappointingly, not a single one had been from the Earl of Kimpton. Of all the people she’d met the night before, he was by far the most fascinating.
