“I did. You weren’t listening.”
“Believe me, I was listening.”
The girl ceased arguing and padded around the room, taking in the high ceiling and soft rugs, the large window, heavy with velvet drapes.
“You were listening for uncle,” Imogene guessed, picking up the porcelain figurine of a duck from the mantel.
“It makes no difference who I was listening for,” said Drew, “a lady would not enter a room if she was not invited inside.”
“I didn’t know anyone was here.” Imogene pocketed the shiny duck.
“Which is why you shouldn’t simply admit yourself,” said Drew, pushing away from the vanity and crossing to her. She held out her hand. “The duck, if you please.”
Imogene made an expression of pronounced innocence.
Drew fished in the girl’s pocket for the duck. “What use could you possibly have for this porcelain duck?” She held it out.
“It would please my mother,” Imogene said, turning away. She drifted to the bed. Climbing the steps to the high mattress, she fell back with arms splayed wide, a girl dropping into a pile of leaves.
“Very thoughtful,” said Drew, replacing the duck. “More so if you were to save your pin money and buy a similar item for her yourself. What did you come here to ask me? Where is Ivy?”
Imogene rolled onto her side and propped a hand under her ear. “Is that what you intend to wear to bed? With Uncle?”
Drew froze, blinking at the girl.
How very hard she worked not to be unsettled by Imogene. The proverbial upper hand was easier to maintain if Drew remained unfazed. At one time, Drew herself dabbled in petty thievery. It staved off boredom. She’d also been an encyclopedia of rude comments, a reflection of the ugliness that she, herself, had been shown. But shehadnever andwouldnever make assumptions about anyone’s wedding-night attire.
Drew managed to ask, “What I wear is not your business, Imogene, surely.”
“Not my business?” challenged the girl. “You’re joking.We enduredailydiscussions ofthisfabric orthatfabric, orthisflounce orthat. Endless droning about what is flattering and appropriate and in fashion or out.”
“Yes, but I don’t speak ofmyclothes, I speak of wardrobe in general. Feign boredom all you like, but you looked gorgeous in the first gown Mrs. Tavertine sent over, and you know it, Ivy, too. And anyway, these are discussions of clothes one might wearin the day, not...” Drew trailed off, looking down at her night rail.
“Trust me,Aunt,” said Imogene, mockingly emphasizing the word, “you are out of your depth. No man will want to ravish you in that murky, impenetrable shroud. It’s the color of a pond in the summer heat.”
Drew stopped trying not to be shocked and gaped at Imogene.
The girl slid from the bed and trudged across the room. “Have you nothing else? It is your wedding night, for God’s sake.”
She drew open the door to a wardrobe with one finger, deftly skimming Drew’s dresses.
“Imogene,” Drew tried, “that’s enough—”
“Some men might relish the challenge of a pond-scum shroud,” declared Imogene, “but not Uncle. Uncle will want an invitation. Something that says, ‘Iam open for business.’”
“Imogene!” gasped Drew.
The girl scooped up a clutch of silk stockings, examined them, and returned them in a wad.
“Imogene that is hardly—”
“Have you nothing light, and silky, and beautiful? Nothing at all?”
“I... I am cold in the night. I prefer to keep warm,” Drew managed. “But, Imogene—”
“Hmmm,” mused the girl, unfurling a diaphanous ivory garment like a herald’s scroll. “This will do.”
“That,” said Drew, “is a shift. It’s worn under my clothes. Andyou—”
