“Men do not distinguish, trust me. And anyway, it will be on the ground soon enough. Take off the green shroud.”
“No. No I will not.” Drew took a step back. “Imogene, need I be worried about the source of your... of your—”
“You’ll remove the pond-green shroud,” recited Imogene, ignoring her, “and you’ll put on the shift. What is your plan for when he comes to you?”
“Comes to me?” Drew could but repeat the words. The girl left the wardrobe and was circling about the room. She tossed the shift onto the bed.
“Ah, no plan, I see,” Imogene observed. “Why am I not surprised? It’s a wonder the two of you ever managed to kiss in the gallery that night.”
“That is quite enou—”
“Has he kissed you again?”
Drew sighed. “We are not having this conversation.”
“He has not,” concluded Imogene. “Poor Uncle.”
“PoorUncle?” demanded Drew.
“The key,” continued Imogene, undeterred, “is positioning. Where you sit, the way you arrange yourself. Before he comes in—”
“He is no—” Drew cut herself off. She cleared her throat. “This is a wholly inappropriate conversation.”
Imogene narrowed her eyes, studying Drew with open skepticism. Drew stared back.
“As I was saying,” Imogene continued, “you should situate yourself somewhere that invites him to join you. The window seat or the trunk at the end of the bed. If you sit alone in a chair, he’ll have to sort out how to shoehorn you out of it. The bed, of course, would be no work at all, and men appreciate a challeng—”
“Enough!” said Drew, finally finding her voice. “Out!” She pointed to the door.
Imogene made a face and pivoted, conveying the extreme obstinance of an aging matron or a spoiled cat. She went to the hearth and pretended to warm her hands bythe fire. Reaching up to touch her hair, she made a swift move to reclaim the porcelain duck.
“Leave the duck,” Drew ordered.
Imogene slouched, sighed, and drifted toward the door. She was almost out when a knock sounded from the far corner of the room. The firm,tap,tap,tapsrattled the wood on the door that adjoined the duke’s bedchamber.
Drew’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes flew to Imogene. It would be impossible, Drew knew, to hide her shock and excitement and hope.
Imogene narrowed her eyes in determination and marched back to Drew.
“Take off the dressing gown.”
“What?” asked Drew, clutching the heavy wool.
“Take it off, take it off, take it off,” the girl chanted impatiently. Pouncing forward, Imogene forcibly yanked the dressing gown from Drew’s shoulders and wrestled it from her arms.
Drew was too overcome to fight her. Her eyes were pinned to the adjoining door.
“Tell him, ‘Just a moment!’” whispered Imogene.
“It’s not him,” whispered Drew. “It’s a servant.”
“It’s him,” insisted Imogene. “Tell him, ‘Just a moment.’”
“I... I—” Drew stammered.
“Jus’ a moment, Your Grace!” Imogene called, employing a working-class accent Drew had never heard.
“Now this monstrosity,” hissed Imogene, jerking the wool night rail over Drew’s head.
