They followed Iris into the corridor, none of them looking very pleased.
“I don’t care for this,” Lily said. “I’m not a Maypole partner, to be chosen by lot.”
“I liked Clonmere well enough,” Holly said, glancing at the parlor door. “I don’t like that he can’t distinguish a favorite among us. Taking a wife ought to be something a man feels strongly about, not something he leaves—”
“For his mama to do,” Hyacinth said. “Though I suppose there’s some comfort in knowing that whichever of us must become his duchess, at least the dowager will look kindly upon her daughter-in-law.”
“Any one of you would make a wonderful duchess,” Iris said. “But I agree, when it comes to marriage, one should feel something for one’s intended.”
Trust, for example. Attraction, tender regard.
“I’m off to bed,” Lily said. “At this time tomorrow, one of us will have a ducal suitor.”
“Or be engaged.” Holly made that sound like a dismal prospect.
“But not married,” Hyacinth said. “Not married yet.”
Iris waited until she and her sisters were out of earshot of the parlor. “You do not sound like young women thrilled to be in contention for a tiara.”
That same look passed among the three of them. “Clonmere’s a fine fellow,” Holly said. “But he’s not my choice.”
“Nor mine,” Hyacinth said.
“Nor mine,” Lily said. “But who can turn down a duke? If I’m chosen, and I refuse his suit, will he send three boxes next time? Papa would have an apoplexy, the dowager duchess would be insulted, talk would ensue.”
“I have a megrim in truth,” Holly said.
“My digestion is growing tentative,” Hyacinth added. “I’m for bed.”
They all three slipped off to their respective bedrooms, leaving Iris alone and hopeful, and also worried. Very, very worried.
CHAPTER 6
“I’M SORRY,” Lily whispered to the darkened room. “I cannot be married to a man who prefers the music of a Scottish farmer to the delights of Italian opera. I cannot. Iris, forgive me.”
She carefully peeled the labels on two of the pretty boxes free, then affixed Iris’s label to Lily’s box, and her own label to Iris’s box. Mr. Everhart had been very, very certain that Clonmere would choose Lily, and had regaled Lily with a long list of attributes that made her the best suited to become a duchess.
Such a long list, in fact, that Lily had begun to hope dear Thomas was speaking for himself rather for his titled cousin. She could not be certain if the brush of his hand against hers had been accidental, cousinly, or something more, but if she married Clonmere, she’d never find out.
“I’m sorry, Iris, but I am simply not cut out to be anybody’s duchess.”
She smoothed her fingers over the labels one last time and slipped from the room.
“MR. AMHERST WAS VERY CLEAR,” Hyacinth said, closing the parlor door quietly. “He told me, plainly that if Clonmere was looking for paragon, a lady whose company never failed to delight, the embodiment of womanly perfection, then he need look no further than me. Amherst considers himself well acquainted with Clonmere. I feared he was quoting the duke in fact.”
“Mr. Dersham has put much the same fear in me,” Holly whispered. “He said Clonmere would be a fool to choose any other woman, when I was surpassingly warm-hearted, exceedingly pretty, and tolerant of human foibles. I don’t even know what foibles are, but I know I do not want to wear that tiara.”
“Iris is the oldest,” Hyacinth said, picking up the box with her own name on it. “Papa should have found a spouse for her first.”
“Cousin Hattie says the same. We’re the youngest. Lily at least should marry before we do.”
“What if we’re wrong, Holl? What if Clonmere holds a secret
Holly lifted her box and shook it gently. “What sort of tendresse makes choosing a duchess a game of musical tiaras?”
“We have to do this, Holl.” Hyacinth began peeling the label on her box free. “I don’t want to be a duchess, and I’m sorry if it makes me a bad sister, but I don’t want you to be a duchess either—not Clonmere’s duchess.”
Holly passed her Lily’s box. “I think of the wedding night, all serious and ducal… what if he starts making love in French? I’d probably respond with something like, ‘Pass me the potatoes, my dear water buffalo.’”
“He’s not that big.” Hyacinth gently worked Lily’s label loose.
“He’s too big for me. Iris and Lily are both taller than we are. Duchesses should be tall.”
They worked in careful silence, until they’d switched their labels for Iris’s and Lily’s.
“We must swear,” Holly said, putting the boxes back in the order they’d found them.
“To the grave,” Hyacinth replied. “Never a word, not even to Lily, Hattie, or Iris.”
“I might tell Mr. Amherst,” Holly said. “But not until I’ve presented him with an heir, though I can’t become Mrs. Amherst if Clonmere flings his tiara at me.”
“Nor can I become Mrs. Dersham. We had to do this, Holl.”
“Lily or Iris will thank us for this, or she would, if she knew we’d done it.”
“Which she won’t. Ever.”
