Page 44

At the top of the slope, under the tents, the butler was circulating, handing out cups of tea. Stella couldn’t read anyone’s expressions from this distance, but she guessed that not a single one of the dowager’s guests cared about her absence. If they even noticed.

Merry would notice if she was gone long enough.

As would Mrs. Thyme, who would be vexed that Stella fell into the water without Giles nearby to play the knight in shining armor.

The dowager was amusing herself by stirring up mud. “Since my slippers are ruined, I kicked them off. I’m trying to see whether I can feel the monocle with my toes. Drat it, I won’t be able to see a thing at dinner.”

“Why haven’t you tried spectacles?” Stella asked. “I assure you that it’s better to see through two eyes than one.”

“They look daring when you wear them,” the dowager said. “I’m afraid that I would just look old. But then, I am old, so why not look it?”

“You do not look old,” Stella said firmly.

Daring?

She thought of her spectacles—everyone thought of her spectacles—as an impediment. Ugly.

But perhaps she ought to begin thinking of them differently. Perhaps even thinking of herself differently.

Categorizing herself as a loser and Yasmin as a winner didn’t do her any good. It may be reality, but it also made her miserable.

I’m pretty even wearing a vulture crown, Stella told herself. A giggle escaped her lips.

“What’s funny?” The dowager was still kicking with the energy of a small boy.

“My aunt threatened to faint if I donned the vulture crown again. I believe she consigned it to the attic.”

“Well, but your aunt—” The dowager decided not to finish her sentence, much to Stella’s relief. “I suggest you stop paying so much attention to fashion. You would look best in a gown with a proper waistline, like what I’m wearing.”

The dowager’s gown did indeed have a closely fitted waist. It made no concessions to la mode: it had no ruffles, no pearl adornments, no bobbles or fringe.

“Just look at the top half of you,” the dowager added, nodding.

Stella looked down. After being splashed with water, the starched ruffles around her bodice had collapsed like a sail without wind, exposing cleavage approximate to Yasmin’s. Her aunt would die of mortification.

“Not to be vulgar but . . .” Her Grace paused. “Why shouldn’t we be vulgar? Vulgarity isn’t a crime. Your top half is bait for a marital mousetrap, as are your hips.”

“I see,” Stella managed. So the dowager duchess’s sartorial advice included a generous display of bosom. She couldn’t stop herself from laughing.

Her Grace looked at her, surprised.

“You and my aunt are diametrically opposed in your attitude toward the male sex. Or at least, toward the Season and courtship.” She felt herself turning pink. “As regards what men are looking for.”

“Which of us married a duke?” the duchess asked, kicking again. “Your aunt and I debuted together, you know, even though I’m older than she. They called your mother and your aunt the ‘two lilies.’ Slender, reasonably good-looking, proper. Played by the rules: all the rules.” She rolled her eyes. “If you’ll forgive me, child, oh so proper and boring.”

Stella cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should return to the tents.”

“I can tell Mrs. Thyme had the dressing of you,” the dowager said, ignoring that suggestion. “When you first got out of the carriage, I thought that ruffle made you look like the Biblical Holofernes.”

Stella blinked.

“Think of those portraits in which his head was carried about on a platter,” the dowager explained.

The laughter that bubbled up from Stella’s stomach couldn’t be controlled. “I thought of a thimble, with a carp’s head on top.”

Her Grace splashed over to Stella and held out her elbow. “I see nothing piscine about your head, but I suppose you know your anatomy better than I do. Why a carp? Why not a salmon? They do have a vaguely pinkish tone, after all.”

Stella knit her arm into the dowager’s. “Salmon would do as well. I was wearing lip color, which has a fishy taste, and makes my mouth look very wide. Piscine, in fact.”