words were hoarse. “Mrs. York wants as many witnesses as possible to her daughter becoming a future duchess.”
Speaking the words aloud was enough to make Chloe nauseated. Philippa would soon be Her Grace, the Duchess of Faircliffe.
And Chloe…would just be Chloe.
“Poor Philippa.” Elizabeth fussed with Chloe’s gown. “Isn’t it time for you to consider employing a lady’s maid?”
“Two lady’s maids,” Tommy agreed, her eyes twinkling. “One for each wardrobe.”
“We can afford it,” Elizabeth reminded her. “You could have a different lady’s maid every day of the week if you wished.”
Chloe didn’t wish.
She had never bothered with a maid before, because she always left the house in ensembles so plain, she could go from her bath to being fully clothed in under five minutes.
That she spent the rest of her time dressing and undressing, curling and uncurling, adorning and de-feathering, was her secret indulgence. Her siblings aware of the truth did not mean she was ready for anyone else to see.
“Unnecessary.” She smoothed out an invisible wrinkle. “When we bring home our Puck, life will return to normal. I’ll be a nonentity again.”
“Not to us,” Elizabeth insisted staunchly.
“With or without ostrich feathers, Chloe is more than enough for anyone who matters,” Tommy agreed. “Who cares about Faircliffe?”
Therein lay the crux of the matter.
Chloe leaned her elbows on her knees and rubbed her face with her hands. Who cared about Faircliffe? Chloe did. She could still glimpse him if she sneaked into Westminster in disguise, but it wouldn’t be enough.
She would miss being important as much as his kisses.
“Here we are.” Tommy handed Chloe her basket.
“Good luck,” Elizabeth said as the carriage rolled to a stop. “I’m off to spy with Graham. Did he tell you the housekeeper returned to the town house late last night?”
Chloe nodded. “Mrs. Root.”
With the housekeeper back home, the other maids would no longer be busy sharing extra work. It also meant another person would be roaming the same halls Tommy was. A person with the same ring of keys.
Tommy checked her wrinkles in a mirror. “It is neither fast nor easy to check every floorboard and potential hiding place whilst dodging two maids and a footman. I spend more time babbling as Great-Aunt Wynchester than I do searching.”
“We have until the end-of-season gala,” Chloe reminded her quickly. “It’s best not to rush.”
Anything to have one more month with Lawrence.
When Chloe and Tommy reached the front step, the butler was already swinging open the door. Mr. Hastings ushered them into the special mirror-less drawing room without delay.
Faircliffe arrived moments later. Not Faircliffe—Lawrence. The duke whose mouth she knew as well as her own.
“Good evening, Lawrence,” she whispered, as if Great-Aunt Wynchester would be scandalized to discover them on a first-name basis. Tommy already knew. She thought it was part of the plan.
“Good evening, Chloe,” he mouthed back, his eyes warm and sparkling, then turned to bow to Tommy. “You look well today, Mrs. Wynchester.”
“What!” Tommy barked. “Speak up if you’re talking to me, green buck.” She shook her head. “Lads these days, with the mumble-mumble. Next time I come, I’m bringing an ear trumpet. You won’t get anything by me then, I warn you now.”
Lawrence arched raised brows toward Chloe.
She gave a What can you do? shrug and whispered, “Don’t worry. She doesn’t know about the kissing.”
His cheeks flushed.
So did Chloe’s. Tommy would definitely tease her about this later.
“Er…” Lawrence cleared his throat. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I have an invitation to a ball tonight.” She didn’t mention the Yorks, although with the rest of society planning to be in attendance, she imagined there was little doubt. “I’m told the sets are to include waltzing. I hope to avoid treading upon toes, but I’ve never had formal instruction.”
“You want me to teach you to waltz?” His stricken expression added a silent With someone else?
But they both knew neither had any claim upon the other. No matter what Chloe’s traitorous heart might wish.
She nodded. “If it’s no bother.”
“No bother at all,” he said quickly. “I, too, have an event this evening, but it will be my honor to play dancing master between now and then.”
Touché. Tonight, they would both seek someone else’s arms.
“I’ve the perfect room for dancing,” he added, then turned to Tommy. “Great-Aunt Wynchester, might you play us a melody on the pianoforte?”
“With these knuckles?” Tommy shook her fist at the duke. “I daresay you don’t know a thing about arthritis, young man. All I can do with a pianoforte is glare at the