Aideen ought to have detested her, but to both their surprises, they had met and enjoyed each other’s conversation during a tedious musical soirée. They appeared to bring out the best in each other, or in Aideen’s case, she supressed her worst tendencies in Cordelia’s proper company.
Since losing her cousin and close friend Sophie Beckford to marriage and rustication in the countryside last year, Aideen had felt rather adrift this Season.
Despite Mrs Beckford’s admirable efforts, she didn’t fit within theBeau Monde. She struggled to control her unruly tongue, mangled dance steps and ate too many lobster patties. She was too robust, loud and forward.
“Did Miss Gibbonreallyfaint though?” She prodded Cordelia as Mrs Beckford wandered out to check on luncheon preparations. “Can one really faint simply at a word?”
An uncharacteristic grimace graced her friend’s fair features, and Aideen was aware Cordelia had been in the doldrums for much of the morning, although the amount of lace around her collar was enough to put anyone in an itchy mood.
“Well, no…but that is not the point.”
“What is the point then?”
“There were gentlemen present, and by swooning, she displayed her delicate feminine sensibilities.”
“Pfff. If she’d missed that couch, she would have displayed more than her sensibilities.”
Cordelia’s lips curved, but no sparkle reached her bright-blue eyes. “Aunty Bridget says society is becoming staid. The slightest indiscretion and one is…ruined.”
Huffing dramatically at the absurdity of fainting over athighfaux pas, Aideen thanked Jesus, Mary, Joseph, all the disciples and the Holy Lamb that no one had discovered she’d been held against her will for more than a few hours by a scurvy French knave last spring.
Now thatwasan indiscretion of ruinous proportions.
The Duke of Rakecombe should probably also be thanked, as she was sure he had supressed – or frightened – any gossipers.
But that would be adding the trait of kindness to his lack of personality.
A loud sniffing, and one look at Cordelia’s pretty but woebegone face made Aideen huddle close. “What’s wrong, Cordy? You’ve been sad all day. Has your handsome viscount been ignoring you?”
“No…it’s… Oh, Aideen, I’m ruined!”
A bundle of frilly white muslin collapsed into her arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
Patting Cordelia’s back, Aideen let her wail a short while before lifting her chin. “Did you mention thighs?” She stroked her friend’s hair, becoming entangled with a lacy ribbon. “Has Lord Oakdean hurt you? I’ll show you how to knee him in the nutm–”
“Aideen!” Cordelia cried, clamping hands over her ears and managing a soggy chuckle. “Don’t mention any more unmentionable words. But no, it’s…it’s…”
“Yes?”
“My piano tutor.”
Frowning, Aideen’s shoulders slumped. How dull. “What’s he doing? Making you learn scales? Patting your knee? I can show you how to twist his–”
“No. I… This is most embarrassing.” A rose flush swamped Cordelia’s wan cheeks. “I haven’t seen him for an age, but at sixteen, I had a slight…infatuation, and I wrote poetry to him.”
Aideen lurched back. “Did you?”
“Hmm. They were awful. I portrayed myself as a lamb and bid him be my shepherd.”
“Eugh.”
“Precisely. The problem is, I have received a note requesting me break my betrothal or my poems will be revealed.”
“No!” Aideen cried. “But would it matter? Surely they’re not that bad?”
“It isn’t only that, although there was one about gambolling on the heath…” Cordelia coughed delicately. “No, it’s just Lord Oakdean’s relatives are such sticklers for propriety, especially his grandmother, and I believe she would then disapprove of our union and forbid it.”
“But Oakdean loves you. Surely he won’t fash over some foolish old poems.”
