Page 73 of Lyon of Least Resistance

“That the Bedford name is not disgraced, Georgiana,” Cordelia said. “Of course. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Georgiana said, the coldness returning to her voice. She rose and swept out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Margaret approached the table. “Oh, you started tea without me.”

“Forgive me, I ought to have waited,” Cordelia said.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. If you’re thirsty, why wait for me when the tea’s getting cold?”

“It’s what ladies are supposed to do.”

“Did Georgie tell you that?” Margaret pulled a face. “You shouldn’t listen to what she says. She doesn’t know how to be happy, that’s all. She only knows how to be a lady.”

“Can’t ladies be happy?”

Margaret sat on the chair her sister had vacated and swung her legs back and forth. “Ladies never seem to be happy. They don’t smile and they’re always so concerned about saying the right thing, using the right fork at the dinner table, and knowing how to address a duchess. Did you know that when you first meet a duchess you have to call her ‘Your Grace,’ but after that it’s ‘Duchess’? Where’s the sense in that?”

Cordelia laughed. “I don’t know, Margaret. I’ve never met a duchess.”

“Would you like to?”

“I’m not sure.”

Margaret slid off the chair and took Cordelia’s hand. “You’re a viscountess. It’s almost as grand as a duchess, and grander than being a wife of a knight or baronet.” She tilted her head to one side. “Then there’s a marchioness. No—she’s grander than a viscountess and a countess. But not as grand as a duchess. Yes, that’s it. Do Many Errands Very Beautifully, Kate.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s how Miss Flight taught me to learn the order of rank,” Margaret said. “Duke, marquess, earl, viscount, baronet, knight.”

Cordelia smiled. “I must write that down.”

“I’ll write it down for you. Miss Flight’s always saying I must practice my penmanship. You have a neat hand, don’t you?” Margaret gestured to the desk. “Did you finish your letter? I can come back later if you haven’t.”

“But your tea would then be cold,” Cordelia said. “I’ll need the rest of the day to finish my letter. I’ve so much to tell Isidore.”

“About us? I hope you have good things to say.”

Cordelia glanced at the letter and her cheeks warmed. Margaret stared at her, the expression in her eyes showing a perception that belied her young age.

“You needn’t worry about Georgiana. She’s always scolding me for not showing proper etiquette. I often think that’s all she cares for. She scolds James, as well. Sometimes I don’t like her.”

“You mustn’t say that, Margaret, my dear,” Cordelia said. “Georgiana’s your sister. I wish I’d had brothers and sisters when I was younger.”

“But you do have sisters now—me and Georgie. And I like you, even if she doesn’t.”

“I like you as well, Margaret.”

The young girl colored and gave a shy smile. “James likes you. Very much. I can tell.”

“How can you tell?” Cordelia asked, then issued a silent curse at the note of desperation in her voice.

“He gets this look when he likes something—when he really likes it, I mean. Such as when he bought his favorite horse, Hercules. Each time he rides Hercules there’s this expression in his eyes, as if he’s lit up from within. He sometimes had that look when he came home from London.” Margaret tilted her head to one side. “Did he know you in London before he married you?”

Cordelia nodded. Margaret smiled and clapped her hands.

“I knew it!” she cried. Then her smile disappeared. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“What for?”