Sally,” she said. “Have you paused to think what on earth you can possibly
do
even if the Marquess falls head over heels in love with you? By the ball tomorrow night, he will only have known Lady Cecily a short time. A man like that does not propose on such short notice. And what if he does? You will then need to tell him that you are not Lady Cecily Trevelyn, a duke’s daughter, but plain Sally Blane of Bloomsbury, who works as Aunt Mabel.”
“Oh, don’t!” wailed Sally. “I know it’s all been such a mistake. I fantasized that he would forgive me when I told him… but now I’ve already deceived him further by pretending I can ride.”
“Then let us make our excuses and leave,” said Miss Fleming briskly. “If we hurry, perhaps we can catch the seven o’clock train from Bath.”
Sally sat up and dried her tears, looking mulish. “And leave him in the clutches of those Guthrie girls? Never! I’ve gone through all this to go to this ball, and go I jolly well will!”
“And on the stroke of midnight you’ll have to turn back into Aunt Mabel,” pointed out Miss Fleming.
“Oh, I don’t need to turn into Aunt Mabel until after the hunt,” pointed out Sally, looking considerably more cheerful.
“You can’t possibly go on that hunt. You can’t even ride. You don’t know the first thing about it.”
“I can read a book on the subject,” said Sally, all mad reason.
“It’s a pity you can’t marry the man,” said Miss Fleming acidly. “You would fit in very well here. They’re all mad. That Mrs. Stuart was telling everyone before you arrived that ‘poor old Freddie’ was due to pop off any minute, and the man just stood there looking like a silly sheep. And for your information, Miss Wyndham is not in love with your Paul. The poor girl is head over heels in love with that ass, Peter Firkin.”
Sally opened her mouth in surprise, but at that moment two footmen arrived, bearing their tea.
“Oh, splendid!” cried Miss Fleming. “Hot muffins and strawberry jam. Come along, Sally. There is nothing like a muffin and a good cup of tea to restore anyone to sanity.”
But Sally could barely wait until the servants had left before she burst out with, “But
how
can Miss Wyndham be in love with Peter Firkin when Paul is around?”
“No accounting for taste,” said Miss Fleming, her mouth full of muffin.
“I had better go and tell her,” said Sally, decidedly. “I thought she was talking about Paul. And Peter Firkin is in love with
her
, for he told me so.”
“You’ll need to wait until you’re Aunt Mabel again,” pointed out her friend.
Sally sighed and resigned herself to tea. She thought over her behavior of the afternoon and decided after much hard thought that she had been too bold, too independent. Everyone knew—for hadn’t Aunt Mabel counseled her readers so?—that gentlemen liked soft, feminine, helpless women. She should not have put up such a brave front. She should have told him she felt weak and shaky. She must change her strategy. She still felt sore all over. She would tell him prettily that very fact this evening.
And she had every opportunity to do so. For Lady Cecily had been given that much-coveted place next to the marquess at the dinner table.
The Guthrie sisters tittered behind their fans and wondered what Paul could see in such an insignificant creature. The duchess looked at Sally speculatively and rather liked what she saw. Sally was looking her very best, courtesy of the Annual Sale on Behalf of the Society for Indigent Gentlewomen. She was wearing a blond lace blouse that had a pretty neckline. Her masses of fine hair had been prettily dressed over her forehead in the very latest fashion by Miss Fleming, who showed unexpected expertise with the curling iron. The dog collar of pearls clasped around her neck emphasized the creaminess of her skin. Her new pink corset created that necessary effect of the monobosom, since it was downright indecent to
do
even if the Marquess falls head over heels in love with you? By the ball tomorrow night, he will only have known Lady Cecily a short time. A man like that does not propose on such short notice. And what if he does? You will then need to tell him that you are not Lady Cecily Trevelyn, a duke’s daughter, but plain Sally Blane of Bloomsbury, who works as Aunt Mabel.”
“Oh, don’t!” wailed Sally. “I know it’s all been such a mistake. I fantasized that he would forgive me when I told him… but now I’ve already deceived him further by pretending I can ride.”
“Then let us make our excuses and leave,” said Miss Fleming briskly. “If we hurry, perhaps we can catch the seven o’clock train from Bath.”
Sally sat up and dried her tears, looking mulish. “And leave him in the clutches of those Guthrie girls? Never! I’ve gone through all this to go to this ball, and go I jolly well will!”
“And on the stroke of midnight you’ll have to turn back into Aunt Mabel,” pointed out Miss Fleming.
“Oh, I don’t need to turn into Aunt Mabel until after the hunt,” pointed out Sally, looking considerably more cheerful.
“You can’t possibly go on that hunt. You can’t even ride. You don’t know the first thing about it.”
“I can read a book on the subject,” said Sally, all mad reason.
“It’s a pity you can’t marry the man,” said Miss Fleming acidly. “You would fit in very well here. They’re all mad. That Mrs. Stuart was telling everyone before you arrived that ‘poor old Freddie’ was due to pop off any minute, and the man just stood there looking like a silly sheep. And for your information, Miss Wyndham is not in love with your Paul. The poor girl is head over heels in love with that ass, Peter Firkin.”
Sally opened her mouth in surprise, but at that moment two footmen arrived, bearing their tea.
“Oh, splendid!” cried Miss Fleming. “Hot muffins and strawberry jam. Come along, Sally. There is nothing like a muffin and a good cup of tea to restore anyone to sanity.”
But Sally could barely wait until the servants had left before she burst out with, “But
how
can Miss Wyndham be in love with Peter Firkin when Paul is around?”
“No accounting for taste,” said Miss Fleming, her mouth full of muffin.
“I had better go and tell her,” said Sally, decidedly. “I thought she was talking about Paul. And Peter Firkin is in love with
her
, for he told me so.”
“You’ll need to wait until you’re Aunt Mabel again,” pointed out her friend.
Sally sighed and resigned herself to tea. She thought over her behavior of the afternoon and decided after much hard thought that she had been too bold, too independent. Everyone knew—for hadn’t Aunt Mabel counseled her readers so?—that gentlemen liked soft, feminine, helpless women. She should not have put up such a brave front. She should have told him she felt weak and shaky. She must change her strategy. She still felt sore all over. She would tell him prettily that very fact this evening.
And she had every opportunity to do so. For Lady Cecily had been given that much-coveted place next to the marquess at the dinner table.
The Guthrie sisters tittered behind their fans and wondered what Paul could see in such an insignificant creature. The duchess looked at Sally speculatively and rather liked what she saw. Sally was looking her very best, courtesy of the Annual Sale on Behalf of the Society for Indigent Gentlewomen. She was wearing a blond lace blouse that had a pretty neckline. Her masses of fine hair had been prettily dressed over her forehead in the very latest fashion by Miss Fleming, who showed unexpected expertise with the curling iron. The dog collar of pearls clasped around her neck emphasized the creaminess of her skin. Her new pink corset created that necessary effect of the monobosom, since it was downright indecent to
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