neckline cut deep into the creamy swells of her breasts, carving into the mounds right above the nipples. Prim feared that one sneeze or laugh, and the woman would be exposed before all and sundry.
The lady slapped Jacob in his chest with her large fan. “Oh la, if it isn’t our handsome recluse. Ah!” She glanced to each of her companions. “Can you believe it, lads?”
They replied almost in unison. “I cannot believe it.”
“Good evening, my lady,” Jacob greeted.
“It’s very nice to see you out and about. You did not attend my salon last week.” She frowned in petulance and slapped him yet again with her fan. “You naughty man.”
Prim wasn’t too familiar with the flirtations between men and women, but she had a suspicion she was witnessing that very thing now, which was a strange thing indeed, as the woman reminded her of a more flamboyant Mama, and Prim could not imagine her mother flirting with anyone, much less a man young enough to be her son.
“Your mother said you were in the country. Fishing.” She laughed then and Prim eyed her bosom in fear, hoping she did not explode from her dress.
The young men at her side joined her in laughter as though cued in by Lady Kettering’s guffaws. She cackled so heartily that the artificial beauty mark on her upper cheek quivered and fell off her face. Primrose stared down at the ground as though she might see it in the dark grass.
The woman sobered, continuing in a chiding tone. “‘Fishing,’ I said, ‘certainly our Jacob knows better than to eschew the delights of the season to fish?’”
“I was fishing in the Lake District for a spell with some friends.”
If Prim had any doubts before, they were put to rest. This well-heeled young man was gentry, and perhaps more. Perhaps even aristocracy. He took fishing trips to the Lake District with friends. He attended Eton. His mother and Lady Kettering were intimates. He was an acquaintance of Lady Kettering, a noblewoman who was frequently splashed all over the papers.
Just who exactly was he? She would have asked if she did not fear he would require the same honesty from her.
“Ah, the Lake District. Such lovely country . . . for a short time, at any rate. Then the wonders of London beckon. Or Bath perhaps. But the country?” She shuddered dramatically. “How could one stay there longer than a night or two? I’d perish of boredom. Would you not, lads?” She looked to her companions.
“Indeed, indeed,” they quickly agreed, and Prim could not help wondering if they shared a brain.
“Well!” The lady clapped her hands merrily, her gloves muffling the sound. “So happy to see you’re back in Town. I’m hosting a dinner next week. I’ll send round an invitation now that I know you’ve returned.” Her gaze drifted to Primrose in final acknowledgment. “You’re welcome to bring your friend here.” Her rouged lips curled as she made the offer and Prim knew it was the furthest thing from sincere. On sight, it seemed, the lady did not like her—as though she sniffed out that her pedigree was less than desirable. “I do not believe I’ve caught your name, m’dear.” She looked Primrose over critically, waiting with an air of impatience.
“I . . . ah . . .” She did not know what to say.
She knew what not to say, which was her real name.
Except she had not prepared a false name to supply, and she could only stammer foolishly.
“This is Fiona. My Scottish cousin.” Jacob had no problem thinking on his feet. The lie tripped of his tongue with ease. She would almost have believed him—if she did not know the truth.
“Oh!” Lady Kettering’s manner changed instantly. “What a pleasure to meet you.” She stepped forward to press a wet, effusive kiss to Prim’s cheek. She reeked of spirits. “You must come to dinner with your cousin next week.” Yes, she was decidedly friendlier now. “I’ve the most brilliant French chef. Horrible temperament—what can you expect from a Frenchman?—but his pastries are ambrosia.”
The woman didn’t take a breath to give Prim room to speak. No sooner had she stepped back than she was saying, “Scotland has such splendid hunting. My late husband always said that if you wanted boar, then you must venture to Scotland for it.”
Primrose resisted mentioning that wild boars were purported to be on the decline in Scotland, and already extinct in England. She’d read that in a journal in her family library.