Page 33 of The Runaway Duchess

“Not since she was a little girl,” she said. Loveday was decidedly not a minx. She was more of a lamb, or a dove. She wanted to keep the peace between her sister and their guest.

“We all went when Uncle Digory and Aunt Heddie lived in Croydon,” she explained. “But Emmeline had lately pinned her hopes on Neal. He was living in full fig. A very nice part of London. What was it called?”

“South Kensington.” Emmeline scowled.

“Very nice,” Lavinia murmured. And then before she could stop herself: “A bit out of the way of things.”

“Is it?” Loveday began to sew again. “He moved to Truro before she could make her visit. Poor dear. She was inconsolable.”

Loveday wanted to keep the peace, but her talents lay elsewhere. Sewing, for example. Her needle flashed steadily. Emmeline narrowed her eyes.

“I was meant to be there for the whole Season,” she hissed, skewering her flannel, then giving it a twist. “Tomas and Neal had agreed, and then Neal left.”

This was too good. Lavinia showed her teeth, smile widening.

“The Season is the worst, for women intellectuals,” she said. “You think you’re going to spend a dull day doing your work, and then, the next thing you know, the Prince of Wales is entertaining, and Sarah Bernhardt is going to be there, and you simply cannot refuse the call. The distractions are endless. I’m sure it’s hard to believe in a place like this, where the hours stretch on forever because there’s so little to fill them.”

“I should hate it,” said Loveday placidly. “Large crowds make me short of breath. There’s not enough air in London. Who is Sarah Bernhardt? A friend of yours?”

“She’s an actress,” snapped Emmeline. “A terrifically famous one. Really, Loveday, she’ll think we live under a rock.”

“But you do live under a rock.” Lavinia smiled brightly. “These tall cliffs rising all around are so striking. It’s the charm of Kyncastle, isn’t it? And Sarah Bernhardt is a friend.” Lavinia had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at Emmeline’s expression. Certainly, friend stretched the truth. She had met her idol, though, on two occasions, once in London and once in Paris. The second time, they’d exchanged a full sentence. “It was a perfectly reasonable question. You don’t give your sister nearly enough credit.”

“You have no siblings.” Emmeline glared. “Perhaps you should reserve judgment.”

“I always wished for an elder sister.” Lavinia smiled at Loveday before resting her gaze on Emmeline. For a moment, she considered her, that English rose prettiness, which Emmeline clearly thought wasted on fishermen and farmers. Then she moved in for the kill.

“Elder sisters always seemed to me a great boon,” she said. “Except . . .” She let her gaze roam slowly down from Emmeline’s face before meeting her eyes again. “I could not abide the hand-me-down clothes.”

Emmeline went white and she clutched her sewing to her breast, an attempt to cover up her printed cotton frock. The frock was childishly simple and more than a little faded, with telltale darts where the fabric had been taken in. Emmeline bent her head, but not before Lavinia saw the shimmer in her eyes.

Tears. Lavinia bit her lip. Vain, silly girls were always the most sensitive.

No one moved. Finally, Emmeline turned, her torso rigid. Lavinia recognized that stiff, brittle posture. It had been hers this twelvemonth in London.

I am armored against your insults.

She wondered if she had been as unconvincing.

“Is that Kelyn calling?” Emmeline said to her sister. “I might be needed in the kitchen.”

She stood, still clutching her sewing, and walked from the room. Loveday looked after her, then looked at Lavinia, surprise and hurt in her eyes.

“I do think I hear Kelyn,” she said quietly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Lavinia rose with Loveday but stood stock-still in the modest parlor. The room suddenly seemed colder, and deathly quiet. This pang in her stomach—an unwelcome mix of contrition and shame.

Victory was hers. Queen of the Kyncastle minxes. A worthless title. It did her as much good as Duchess of Cranbrook.

She walked to the window. A view of the neighboring cottage, smaller than the Traymaynes’, potted geraniums on the windowsills splashing the gray afternoon with color. She shut her eyes, leaned her forehead against the cool glass.

How old was Emmeline? Eighteen? The youngest daughter of the household, a girl who read gossip columns, collected the pictures of the beauties advertised in the illustrated papers, followed the career of Sarah Bernhardt. A girl who dreamed—like so many pretty girls before her—that her face would someday make palace doors swing open.

A lifetime separated eighteen and twenty-four.

Suddenly, Lavinia felt old, old as time itself. In London, she’d kept accounts, kept track of the social ledger—girls scoring off one another, their relative positions weighted at the outset by factors beyond their control—birth, wealth, beauty. She’d enjoyed tallying her points. What a prize had awaited her!

George’s face swam in the darkness. She opened her eyes, lifted her hands, cooled her wrists against the glass.