followed the duchess to another crate and offered enthusiastic praise for an identical rock.
“I was never one of the bluestockings,” the duchess said. “Sherbourne would not have stood for it, but even he agrees that a broad knowledge of the world prevents a lady from becoming dull.” She smiled pleasantly. “Your mother was never interested in my advice on my granddaughters’ education.”
“Speaking of my mother—”
“Oh, look, there’s Sir Arthur now.”
Sir Arthur Kenyon was a robust gentleman in his fifties, who bore the hearty look of a man who reveled in outdoor activity. He strode into the room, quizzing glass fixed to his eye. Upon seeing the duchess, he performed a deep, gallant bow. The duchess responded with a gracious nod, her face touched by a girlish smile and an extra hint of color.
Now, that made the rocks more interesting!
“Well, Cassandra, my dear, it’s been lovely to see you,” her grandmother said, her eyes on Sir Arthur.
Cassandra’s mirth faltered. That was polite-speak, as Mr. DeWitt would put it. Translation: “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“I daresay we shall see each other again soon,” the duchess went on. “You will attend your uncle Morecambe’s rout this week, of course, and I shall send an invitation for my ball; it’s in less than three weeks. I look forward to seeing you there.”
With that, the duchess turned and started across the room, toward her beau and his big rocks, leaving Cassandra momentarily speechless.
“Grandmother! Your Grace!” she called, collecting herself and scurrying after her. “There was a particular matter…”
Her grandmother paused, her lips pursed. “Well, what is it?”
“It’s Lucy, she’s nineteen now, and it’s past time for her to enter society and, since you are hosting a ball anyway, perhaps you might be so kind as to—”
“Oh dear, I feared it would be something like this.” Her grandmother spared a quick glance at Sir Arthur before continuing. “Guiding a girl into society requires considerable time. You may think I sit around with nothing to do but wait for my granddaughters to rush in from the countryside and start demanding favors, but my schedule is full and I cannot simply abandon my other obligations to tend to your needs.”
“I didn’t mean…” Cassandra fumbled for a response. “There’ll be no court presentation. Merely if Lucy made her debut at your ball…”
“I don’t see why Lady Charles isn’t seeing to it.”
“Mama is unwell.”
“I see. Well, your father did insist on marrying her. But that was decades ago and it does not signify now.”
“Lucy is special,” Cassandra rushed to say before her grandmother could turn away again.
“What are her interests?”
Making trouble. Breaking things. Getting drunk and singing bawdy songs in the middle of the night.
“She is a renowned beauty. She excels at dancing and singing and putting together outfits and—”
“And I am bored with her already.” The duchess sighed. “Cassandra, my dear, I made my debut nearly fifty years ago. Back then, dancing and gowns were exciting for me too, but let me tell you, the faces change, the fashions change, but the conversations remain the same.”
“If Lucy makes a good match, it will benefit all the family.”
“A better match than yours, you mean? I advised strongly against your marriage to Mr. DeWitt—the son of the man who ruined my Susan!—but your father would not listen. Yet still you expect me to run to your aid, even while you are stirring up trouble too.”
“I’ve never stirred up trouble in my life!”
“Oh? Then what do you call it when your husband and your former betrothed come to blows outside a club in St. James, as they did last night?”
That purple bruise on her husband’s cheek. The feel of his skin under her thumb.
“Harry?” Cassandra said. “I mean, Lord Bolderwood was the one who punched him? Whatever for?”
“You’ll have to ask your husband that, won’t you?” The duchess gave a little shake of her head. “Dreadful man, your Mr. DeWitt, but my husband and my son do insist on receiving him.” She shot another glance at Sir Arthur, as though he might sneak off to Greece if she did not keep an eye on him. “I see you are disappointed, Cassandra, but this has nothing to do with me. Your father made it plain that he neither valued nor needed my advice, when it came to his children. I don’t know what he was thinking.”
And you don’t want to know, Cassandra thought. If you knew, it would break your heart.
Cassandra hadn’t understood back then, either. “Here’s what I’m thinking,