“All of your daughters will be welcome under my roof,” Harriet said, “and we will manage more happily with limited means than you do with all your rents and investments. Poverty of the heart is a worse affliction than poverty of coin.”
Before the earl could fumble out another insult, Harriet left, closing the door quietly behind her.
“CLONMERE HAS A CHARMING SMILE,” Iris said. “He’s mannerly and attractive.”
Lily’s stabbed at her embroidery hoop. “Does that mean he’s handsome? I’ve seen him across the square, but broad shoulders mean little if a man talks with his mouth full.”
Oh, this was difficult. Iris wanted to gush about the duke—she
“He’d never talk with his mouth full,” she said. “He has the natural sense of self-possession that men comfortable in their own skin acquire. He would partner you on the dancefloor, not haul you about. You’d have a conversation, not be consigned to listening adoringly while he talks about his hounds.”
Hyacinth looked up from her lace. “But I listen adoringly so well.”
Holly laughed. “And being hauled about has become a habit. I’m sure I can’t recall the steps of any dance I ever learned.” They exchanged a look that between twins communicated volumes.
“Clonmere’s duchess will be happy in her marriage,” Iris said. “Though she will be challenged as well.”
Lily snipped off her thread. “Because of all the entertaining?”
“That too, though a competent staff can handle those obligations. If Clonmere is bringing charm, intelligence, means, honor, a title, and more to the union, then his duchess had better be equipped with charm, intelligence, settlements, dignity, graciousness, and loyalty, at least. You’ll have to make an effort to hold his interest if you expect him to hold yours.”
“I expect him to hold my cloak,” Lily said. “And a lovely cloak it will be too. I fancy a bright blue velvet to bring out my eyes.”
“Be serious,” Hyacinth replied. “Iris is right. The Duchess of Clonmere can’t be a gudgeon. She must be a paragon.”
Holly set aside her book. “I missed the classes in being a paragon. I did watercolors, dancing, deportment, French—until Papa let Monsieur go. I’m not sure I can be a paragon.”
“Of course you can,” Iris said. “For a husband you esteem greatly, you can achieve nearly anything you set out to do.”
That reassurance felt like a betrayal, because Iris should be encouraging her sisters to achieve their dreams for themselves, though their dream was apparently to become Clonmere’s duchess. Iris also felt as if she was betraying the duke, who was more than a trophy stag whose family crest would be mounted on his duchess’s Town coach.
And perhaps, a little bit she was betraying herself.
Cousin Hattie came in carrying Puck, an enormous sloth of a feline. “Brace yourselves, my dears. We’re to have a caller.”
“If that odious Mr. Billings Harman comes around again,” Holly muttered, “I am prostrate with a megrim.”
“I claim the bloody flux,” Hyacinth added. “That leaves a lung fever for you, Lily.”
“I had lung fever last time.”
While Iris had had the longest half hour of her life, dodging Mr. Harman’s innuendos and his hands. Thank heavens Hattie had been steadfastly remarking the time every five minutes.
“The Duke of Clonmere is at our front door,” Hattie said. “He’s brought Mr. Thomas Everhart along, and I’ve already sent for the tea tray.”
Lily stashed her embroidery hoop into her work basket. “Mr. Everhart? The composer?”
“They’re cousins,” Iris said, not that she’d been studying Debrett’s until midnight or anything. “I’ve danced with Mr. Everhart. He seems very pleasant.”
“Oh, lord, I’m not wearing any lace,” Hyacinth said, examining herself in the mirror over the sideboard.
Holly jostled her aside. “I haven’t a stitch of embroidery on.”
“Bother that,” Lily said, pinching her cheeks and crowding Holly. “My hair is a fright.”
“Your hair is beautiful,” Iris retorted. “If you all rush off to change your dresses or re-do your hair, the duke will be gone before you can rejoin us.” Though for fifteen minutes, Iris wouldn’t have to share him with her sisters.
Disloyal thought.
Disloyal
Disloyal, honest,
The butler, a venerable relic named Sooth, glided into the parlor. “Henning, His Grace of Clonmere, and Mr. Thomas Everhart.”
“Thank you, Sooth,” Iris said, rising. “If you’d see to the tea tray.”
“Lady Iris,” Mr. Everhart said, bowing. “May I present to you my cousin, Henning, Duke of Clonmere. Clonmere, Lady Iris Fallon.”
Further introductions followed, with Iris’s sisters bobbing like blossoms in the breeze, and Clonmere bowing gravely over each proffered hand. This was a necessary step on the way to the altar, of course, and by having his cousin make the introductions, Clonmere was getting off on a very proper foot with Iris’s sisters.
