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That brought on another round of mirth from the trio of married duchesses.

Ophelia rolled her eyes skyward and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially to Rayne. “It seems we cannot escape their protestations of wedded bliss.”

Or their not-so-veiled sexual innuendos.

Rayne knew more than most unmarried—supposedly virtuous women—did in that regard. Experience had been a harsh teacher. For Everleigh too, but she overcame her aversion. All-too familiar sourness stung Rayne’s tongue, and she swallowed away the bitterness.

“I’m truly happy for them.” She just didn’t have the same yearning to marry and settle into domestic bliss, and apparently, neither did Ophelia.

“You know I am as well,” her friend conceded. “But is it wrong to want something more too?”

“Not at all,” Rayne said as they turned toward the entrance. A pair of laughing boys in navy-blue-and-white-striped skeleton suits raced by, their harried governess or nurse failing in her efforts to keep up with the energetic duo. “I want more too.”

Rayne simply wasn’t sure what that more was. Unlike Ophelia, who enjoyed London and all the trappings that went along with a Season, Rayne could well do without the busyness and hullabaloo of town life. She supposed that made her an oddity amongst the ton. Amongst most gently-bred young women as well.

Should she care about that flaw in her character?

She didn’t. Not a blessed jot.

“Good afternoon, Your Graces, Miss Breckensole, Miss Wellbrook.”