life without Ekta. The life of an ayah without children to care for could often be cruel, leading to abject poverty on the fringes of a society that cared little for the foreign women. And so, Ekta had become her Abigail.
“How simple all this would be if we still lived in Bengal,” Calliope remarked. “But, we do not … and while the English do arrange the occasional marriage, it is quite the thing to allow young people to make their own matches whether they be practical or romantic.”
“How could the man not love you?” Ekta grumbled, crossing her arms over her narrow chest, wrinkled face scrunching in disdain. “Is he blind or simple-headed? What man would not want my Anni for a wife?”
Calliope laughed, affection flooding her for her old nurse—one of the few people who still called her by the Bengali name she’d been given at birth. Only Ekta and her father ever called her Anni, a reminder of the woman who had birthed her and the land from which she had been taken at the young age of four years.
“He will,” Diana insisted, taking up a bottle of perfume and dabbing it on her wrists. “We shall simply have to adjust our strategy. Do you know what you need? Another suitor!”
Calliope whirled to face her sister. “I don’t want another suitor, I want Mr. Lewes.”
“Of course you do,” Diana said, wiggling her eyebrows. “And the best way to get a man’s attention is to pretend you’re interested in someone else. Nothing stirs a man’s possessiveness like realizing he faces competition.”
“Such foolish games,” Ekta muttered as she lifted Calliope’s discarded dressing gown and slippers. “You should simply write your father and tell him you wish to wed this man. He will ensure Mr. Lewes is made aware of how wise he would be to offer for you.”
Ignoring Ekta, Diana stood, her eyes twinkling with mischievous inspiration. “Like most men, Mr. Lewes is in no hurry to wed. Perhaps because you are not so young and still unattached, he supposes he has all the time in the world to consider you. But … if he thinks another man might steal you from under him …”
Calliope frowned as she digested Diana’s words. Like Ekta, she was opposed to the way the courtship game was played in high society. She much preferred honesty but realized that Diana had a point. Her sister had garnered Hastings’s interest early in the Season, but the man had dragged his feet asking for her hand. Then, two others had begun paying her marked attention, and Hastings had made his intentions known forthwith.
“Perhaps you are right.”
“It is a terrible idea,” Ekta said, shaking her head as she bustled about the chamber, cleaning up behind their evening toilette. “Better for you to be patient if you are not going to allow your father to coordinate the match for you.”
“Ekta, this is the way things are done,” Diana argued.
“Perhaps,” Calliope said. “But I don’t like the idea of leading one man on to snare another. I have been made to believe a man’s interest in me was honorable, and I know all too well how it feels when that turns out not to be the case.”
Diana bit her lip, her gaze darting as her mind seemed to race toward a solution. Calliope could practically hear the creak of the wheels turning in her sister’s head. Once Diana got an idea, she could never be content with allowing it to die when someone proved it to be a bad one. She simply adjusted course and found a way to bring her notions to life.
“I’ve got it,” she said suddenly, clapping her hands as if overcome with excitement. “I cannot believe I didn’t think of it before. What if you didn’t have to lead anyone on? What if you could get some gentleman to agree to pretend to court you? He could be made aware that nothing will come of your association, and his only job is to make you seem as attractive to Mr. Lewes as a bridal candidate as possible.”
Ekta made a sound of disapproval but said nothing. Calliope blinked, uncertain she had heard her sister correctly.
“That does it,” she quipped. “You must be with child, and this only confirms it. I’ve heard the condition can affect a woman’s nerves as well as her mind. You must be delirious. Do you feel ill? Should we skip the opera so you can lie down? I’ll send for Hastings.”