Page 50 of Kiss Me Lady One More Time
“Well, do not cut corners,” Tensford warned. “A great many people will be watching us. We want to give them no idea but that we are thrilled to be enjoying the party—until we are not. And in any case, weshouldenjoy the party, if we can. We’ve given Miss Munroe little enough in the way of entertainment so far—and on this, her first, real trip to London.”
“Well, to be fair, we must remember that I’ve had a short tour of the British Museum and a drive in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour,” she reminded him. “There are a few other things I should love to explore—the Tower, the theatre, ices at Gunter’s. Our quest must come first, of course. And Hope’s health even before that.”
“I feel fine,” the countess insisted once more. “And don’t you all feel as if we are getting close to solving our mystery? Surely the masquerade will see the thief revealed. And then we shall have time to treat ourselves.”
“I should like that.” Very deliberately, she did not look at Sterne. “This may be my last trip to London for some time, and I would love to make the most of it.”
They all turned to her, seemingly grateful for another topic of conversation.
“Last trip?” Sterne straightened and focused his gaze on her for the first time since they had sat down again. “But I thought you meant to come back for the Season in the spring?”
“I’d hoped to, but my mother is busy plotting again. She’s gradually got over her disappointment in my expectation to have my own life instead of just settling in at home and acting as her unpaid secretary. But if at all possible, she wants to avoid a Season. Spring is the worst time for her to leave her plants, it seems. She hopes to marry me off before she is obligated to do so.”
“Is that why you have so many visitors these last months?” Hope asked, all sympathy. “It did seem unusual.”
“Yes. Potential suitors, all. And I had a letter from her this morning, asking when we plan to return. I suspect she’s got the next prospect lined up.”
“Oh, dear. Your mother is a singular woman, my dear. I can only imagine her idea of a suitable candidate must include a long line of scientific accomplishments, and not much else.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Penelope saw Sterne flinch.
“Let’s just say that our lists of qualifications don’t share many similarities.”
“Oh?” Whiddon entered the conversation on teasing note. “Are you, like so many debutantes before you, after a title and an income to match?” He waggled his brows at her. “I have both, should you care to hear about them.”
She laughed. “If I thought you were serious, sir, I should be quite nervous.”
Hope glanced at Sterne and refilled his cup. “Have your mother’s candidates so far been objectional?”
“I wouldn’t speak so strongly against them,” she demurred. “Though they have so far shared a lamentable tendency toward talking long and thoroughly about their scientific interests, first, and their plans and desires for the future, second. But have they shown any curiosity about my own ideas on any of those subjects? Not one. Not at all.”
“Don’t despair, dear girl,” Tensford told her. “We are not all of us so hopeless. Some of us have actually learned to do better—and no one is so capable of teaching you how to direct us as Hope.” He shot his wife a fond glance. “She certainly did a thorough job with me.”
“Oh, I don’t despair. At least, not completely. I have met a gentleman or two who have indeed shown an interest in getting to know me.”
“A gentleman or two?” the earl lamented. “We must round up a better selection than that.”
“The problem is that those gentlemen seemed inclined to know me, but rather disinclined to court me.” She kept her gaze turned down onto her plate. “So perhaps it is myself I must work on and not them.”
“I refuse to believe such a thing,” Whiddon declared valiantly. “You have clearly not yet met the right gentleman, that is all.”
“Or perhaps the right gentleman has not yet realized that you are the right young lady.” Hope sparkled at her husband. “Some men are notoriously slow about acknowledging such things.”
“You are quiet on the subject, Sterne,” Whiddon challenged. “What is your opinion?”
He met her gaze, then looked away. “I think you should convince your mother to let you have your Season. People laugh when they call it the marriage mart, but it is constructed to make it easier to meet the right gentlemen—the ones who will both recognize your many and obvious charms and also be in the situation to offer you the sort of life you require.”
The sort of life you require.
She sat stunned for a moment, before flames of anger erupted even as the words echoed about inside her head.
The life she required, indeed! After all of their conversations on learning and books and kindness and people and travel—he should know what sort of life she required! What did he think she required? Was he now reducing her to the same sort of debutante who came to Town looking for titles and monies? Estates and fashion? Was he listening to what she actually said out loud? No! Just like everyone else, he assumed he knew what was best for her.
She shot to her feet, sudden fury propelling her like a piston in the steam engine Tensford had installed in his lumber mill. She opened her mouth, ready to roast him with the inexorable heat of her righteous anger.
“Begging your pardon, my lord, my lady. But ye’ve a caller.” A maid spoke timidly from the door. “Lady Pemdale asks if you are at home?”
Hope, blinking, looked to Sterne and then, helplessly, her husband. “Lady Pemdale? Of course. Show her in, please.”
