is to it. The girls, particularly Joan, need a noblewoman of unassailable reputation to usher them into society.”
Hugo’s brows drew together, but before he could speak, his sister planted her fingers on his desk, leaning over and meeting his eyes. “Joan looks like Yvette; I’ll give her that. She’s going to be beautiful. But she does not look like a Wilde.”
“She is a Wilde,” Hugo growled, surging to his feet.
Louisa drew her shoulders back but held his gaze steadily. “Don’t play the fool, Hugo. Whether or not it’s true, her golden hair will be seen as a gift from Yaraslov. You need to marry a powerful woman now, so that rumors are throttled early, if only because those gossips are terrified of the Duchess of Lindow’s wrath.”
“Wonderful,” Hugo said, deadpan. “You’re telling me to marry a dragon with a disgust for bed sport. She’ll be a delight to live with.”
“You don’t have to bed her,” his sister pointed out. “Lord knows, you have more than enough heirs. Think of it as taking on a superior governess.”
“I don’t want another governess, no matter how superior.”
Louisa snorted. “I’ll let Prism know that you’ll be leaving for London tomorrow. Take the silk directly to Grippledon; I think he’s the best tailor these days.” She headed for the door, scooping up her hat on the way, but stopped and swung about. “Do not, under any circumstances, mention the children during your courtship, Hugo.”
“You just said that I need to find a woman precisely because of my offspring,” he said. “I should talk of nothing but the children—just as I would when choosing a governess, may I point out.”
“No,” his sister said. She rarely laid down decrees, preferring to run his household with a smile, albeit a fierce smile. But this was a command. “Let the woman see you as a man, not a father. No one wants to marry a father.”
Hugo swore under his breath, and then shouted, “I’m not leaving until next week,” as the door closed behind her.
Chapter Two
Lady Gryffyn’s ball
London
One month later: November 9
“You’re so fortunate that you needn’t bother with another husband,” Maddie Penshallow lamented. “You have the best of all worlds, Phee. Your husband was perfectly nice—and, of course, we’re all sorry that Sir Peter passed away—but he left you with that darling little girl and not a care in the world!”
Ophelia winced at this blithe summary of widowhood, but her cousin didn’t pause for breath as she launched into an account of her marital woes. Apparently, Maddie’s husband, Lord Penshallow, was like the rest of his sex: He didn’t brush his teeth enough, made impolite noises at dinner (farted, Ophelia interpreted), and—
“He has two mistresses?”
“Two,” Maddie said, with dramatic emphasis. “One I could tolerate. In fact, I would happily encourage it. But two is an insult. Two means that everyone in London suspects that I refuse to bed him.”
“Which you do,” Ophelia said.
“That’s private,” Maddie objected.
“No, it isn’t. It hasn’t been since you lost your temper and threw a bowl of cherries at him last month at the Terring Hunt Ball.”
“Glacé cherries,” Maddie said, looking somewhat more cheerful. “When I’m particularly irritated, I bring to mind the way they bounced off his fat head like little tomatoes.”
“Well, after that no one could believe that you maintain cordial relations in the bedchamber. Not when you were screaming about—”
“No need to go into the details,” Maddie said hastily. “It’s not as if you don’t have a temper yourself.”
“I’m trying to change,” Ophelia said.
Her cousin snorted.
“How is your snorting different from his breaking wind?” Ophelia inquired.
“You’re not listening to me, Phee!” Maddie cried. “My point is that you are lucky because you needn’t deal with a man ever again. You don’t have to hear snoring, or a lecture about what asparagus does to his digestive system, or be smirked at by his mistress—who happens to be wearing diamond earrings tonight, by the way!”
“As are you,” Ophelia observed.
“Exactly the same earrings,” Maddie said. “I like your emeralds much better than my diamonds, which my husband apparently bought in bulk.” She cocked her head. “In fact, you’re more attractive than when you debuted, Phee. I expect it’s motherhood. Those curves mean that your chin doesn’t look as pointed as it used to.”
Ophelia broke into laughter and gave her cousin a hug. “What you’re saying is that my witchy chin is now topping a fat figure?”
“Voluptuous is not fat,” Maddie protested, wiggling out of Ophelia’s arms. “How is my goddaughter, by the way?”
“Oh, Viola’s