Page 66 of Duke of Iron
“I’m torn between a Greek goddess and a French queen. But if I must choose, I shall be Medusa.”
“Appropriate,” May said, and instantly regretted it. “I meant—your hair. It’s lovely when you wear it up.”
Kitty gave a sly smile. “We all meant it that way. Tell us, May, if you could dress as anything, what would it be?”
May leaned back, considering. “I would be invisible.”
Christie raised her brows. “That is not allowed.”
“Then perhaps I will be a specter,” May said. “There’s a certain appeal to being overlooked.”
Kitty tapped her fork against her teacup, then exchanged a look with Christie. “You are never overlooked, Duchess. Not anymore.”
May looked at her lap, the compliment stinging as much as it pleased. The subject drifted, as it always did, to the latest courtships, engagements, and failures thereof. They discussed the color of Lady Shelburne’s new drawing room.
“I wish you could have seen it, May,” Kitty wrinkled her nose. “It was a ghastly color. Yellow! Like a lemon!”
“It is a crime against the senses,” said Christie.
The scones arrived, with clotted cream and a new pot of tea. As May cut hers, Kitty said, “Did you hear about Miss Applegate? Miriam? She wore a peacock costume to the Fentons’ masquerade last winter, and everyone ridiculed her. She wept, apparently, for a full hour.”
“She did not weep,” Christie said. “She only appeared so. It was the effect of the powder and rouge.”
Kitty looked at May. “Can you imagine, planning for weeks and then being laughed at entirely?”
“I think,” May said slowly, “that it must have been very brave. She stood out, even if people did not see it.”
Kitty blinked. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
May smiled. “Most girls spend their entire lives hoping to be noticed. If Miriam Applegate wished to be seen, I admire her for it.”
Christie tapped a bit of cream onto her scone. “She did look rather fine. The colors suited her.”
May nodded, emboldened. “She is quite clever, too. I sat next to her at a dinner, and she quoted Virgil for ten straight minutes.”
Kitty’s brows shot up. “Virgil?”
“Poetry,” May said. “The Latin sort.”
“Oh. I’d have failed to keep up, I think.” Kitty gave a small smile. “But you would not.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, interrupted only by the clink of teacups and the quiet competition of who could butter a scone more elegantly.
Kitty broke the spell first. “I hope you will come to my birthday ball next month. It’s nothing grand, only a little supper and some dancing. But I would like it very much if you came.”
May was surprised. “I would be honored.”
Christie grinned. “We will make it the event of the Season, if only for you.”
May flushed, caught off guard. “You are both very kind.”
Kitty reached for her hand again, squeezing it briefly. “I mean it. We are glad to have you with us.”
May looked at their faces, so alive with mischief and the thrill of social engineering, and she wondered for a moment if she belonged here. If these girls saw her as one of their own, or as a prize to be won, her title a favor to court every opportunity.
Am I a friend, or a pet project?
But then she remembered the way Kitty had laughed at her joke, and the way Christie had softened at the mention of poetry, and she allowed herself to believe in the possibility of friendship, even if it came in odd shapes.
