"Mrs. Wright has six unmarried daughters. She thinks every single male under the age of ninety is seeking a bride. And what on earth does a ball have to do with that?"
Lady Coleby exchanged a look with Cecily and Phoebe, all three of them seeming to despair at Audra's obtuseness. Her ladyship kindly explained, "Why you see, my dear, it appears the duke doesn't care to go to London looking for a wife. Hopefully, by giving this ball, he will find a lady that will suit."
"Isn't it romantic, Audra?" Cecily chimed in.
"It sounds like a perfectly cork-brained notion to me," Audra said. "His Grace must have maggots in his head if he expects to become that well acquainted with anyone in a crowded ballroom."
This forthright speech made Cecily look ready to sink, but Phoebe giggled and Lady Coleby smiled, shaking her finger at Audra, terming her a naughty creature.
"But always so droll." Gathering the ends of her shawl, her ladyship heaved herself to her feet. "I fear we must be going, Phoebe. Your papa will wonder what has become of us."
Audra's heart gave a grateful leap, the pages of her book calling out to her, but she tried to disguise her eagerness. "Must you be going and so soon?" Not allowing her ladyship a chance to reply, she leaped to her feet. "We won't keep you then. I shall ring to have your carriage brought round at once."
No matter how short a stay her callers paid, Audra always insisted their coachman employ the hospitality of her stables. She couldn't abide the notion of horses being kept standing about, waiting upon dilatory human beings.
But in this instance, Audra had allowed herself to forget what a task it could be, sending Lady Coleby upon her way. Even after she was bundled into her shawl, her ladyship remembered at least half a dozen more important things she needed to tell Audra. Then a search had to be commenced to find Lady Coleby's missing reticule. It had become lodged beneath the settee cushion. After that, her ladyship insisted that she must write down instructions for Audra's housekeeper on an infallible new method for getting berry juice out of muslin.
By the time Audra managed to sweep Lady Coleby and Phoebe through her front door, her ladyship's fine bays had been kept pawing in the traces for a full quarter of an hour.
Concealing her fret of impatience, Audra stepped out onto the lane and waved cheerfully as the two ladies were handed into the carriage. "I hope you and Phoebe enjoy yourselves splendidly at the ball," she called. "You must drop round for tea again very soon."
With Cecily by her side, the two of them continued to wave until the carriage lumbered into motion. As soon as the coach vanished down the lane, Cecily's smile faded and she turned upon Audra a look of pure exasperation.
"Oh, Audra! How could you!"
"How could I what? Invite her ladyship back? It seemed the civil thing to do, and I might as well. She'll come anyway."
"You know that is not what I meant."
As Audra headed back into the house, Cecily trailed after her, still scolding. "I am talking about all those outrageous things you said about the duke, all those horrid jests, and to Lady Coleby, of all people. You know what a notorious gossip she is. Your remarks will be all over the neighborhood before tomorrow morning."
"Nonsense. Why would she bother talking about me? I assure you I am nothing compared to a duke who travels with twenty trunks."
She was already dismissing Lady Coleby from her mind, her thoughts on one thing only. Hastening to the parlor, she found the room odiously stuffy and managed to inch the long windows open a crack before Cecily joined her there. With Cecily following her like a small dark cloud, Audra retrieved her book and mounted a search for her wire-rimmed spectacles.
"And that is another thing, Audra," Cecily continued to scold. "You have been reading again!"
Why did her sister always make that sound as though Audra had been doing something disreputable, like tying her garter in public? Locating her glasses, Audra perched them on the bridge of her nose and peered at Cecily over the rims. "It wouldn't hurt you to occasionally look between the covers of a book yourself, miss."
"No, thank you. One bluestocking in the family is quite enough. You are ruining your eyes. I quite detest those spectacles you have taken to wearing and . . . and, oh, Audra, don't you understand? You will get the most dreadful reputation for oddity."
Audra forbore to remind her sister that she had had that reputation for years and that Cecily had never minded it before, at least not until she had returned from Bath, a graduate of Miss Hudson's Academy for Fashionable Young Ladies.
But she didn't want to quarrel with Cecily again. They seemed to squabble too often of late. Instead Audra chose to ignore her sister's comments, seeking out the sanctuary of her favorite wing-back chair drawn close to the hearth.
She was on the verge of plunking onto it when she was startled by a reproachful yip. Glancing down, she discovered Cecily's pug curled up on the velvet cushion.
"Down!" Audra snapped in a tone of command that would have reduced any of her own hunting dogs to a state of prompt obedience. The pug merely yawned. When she reached out to haul the dog off, the beast emitted a low, menacing growl.
"Audra! You are scaring her," Cecily cried.
"Then have the goodness to remove the little bitch from my chair."
Cecily let out a horrified shriek, but swooped to rescue her pet. Cuddling the dog in her arms, she murmured endearments. "The poor little thing. She's quivering. I've asked you not to shout at her, Audra, or call her anything so horrid."
"But that is what a female dog is called."
"I don't care. It sounds vulgar. Besides she has a name."
"So she does," Audra grumbled as she settled in her chair. "But I could never bring myself to call anything Frou-frou."
With an injured sniff, Cecily whisked her dog away as if she feared Audra meant to do the animal some harm, which was ridiculous. Audra was notoriously tenderhearted toward all four-legged creatures, a trait she found slightly embarrassing to admit. She was likely the only person in England who kept a pack of hunting dogs and never hunted. She could not even endure the thought of destroying the vixen that made repeated raids upon her henhouse. Although she could not say that she was fond of Cecily's dog, she would never have wrung its neck, no matter how often she threatened to do so.
After being much petted by Cecily and adjured not to mind "crosspatch Audra," Frou-frou settled into the corner of the settee to resume her nap. Audra, flicking through the pages to where she had left the imperiled Ivanhoe, wished her sister would alight somewhere.
But Cecily hovered over her, hands on hips. "I cannot believe you are going to bury yourself in that book again, especially after we have had such thrilling tidings."
Never glancing up from her volume, Audra searched her memory, but she could recall nothing more thrilling than a complaint from her housekeeper. "I would call it vexing rather than exciting. That is the second time the cow has got into the garden this week. It is all the fault of Sir Ralph Entwhistle and his blasted hunt. If he does not remember to close the gate next time he crosses—"
"Audra! How can you be so provoking! You know I am not talking about any cow or— Do put that book away and pay attention. You never talk to me. I am nigh ready to perish of loneliness."
Audra would have thought that the recent onslaught of Lady Coleby would have been enough to cure anyone of loneliness for a twelvemonth, but she was not proof against Cecily’s pout or the tiny catch in her voice.
"I am sorry if I have been neglecting you, Muffin," she said, then immediately had to apologize again for letting slip the now-hated childhood nickname.
"You know I am far too old to be called that anymore, Audra," Cecily said indignantly.
"So you are," Audra said, suppressing a smile and a twinge of wistfulness at the same time. Although she didn't close up the book, she removed her spectacles and accorded Cecily her full attention. "What is it you wish to talk about?" she asked, hoping it was nothing to do with the cut of sleeves or the length of he
mlines this year. Audra couldn't abide discussing furbelows.
Cecily brightened immediately, sinking onto the settee opposite. "Why, the ball to be held at Raeburn Castle. Was there ever anything so delightful?" She did not give Audra a chance to reply but immediately began to enthuse over the pleasures of waltzing in the great hall, sipping champagne, and eating lobster patties. But when she reached the point of wondering at what silk warehouse they should order the material for their gowns, Audra felt obliged to interrupt.
"But Muff—I mean, Cecily, you should not get that excited. There is not the least likelihood we shall be invited."
"Why not? After all, your papa was a viscount, and mine was second cousin to an earl. It is not as if we are beneath the duke's touch. I am sure we are every bit as good as the Colebys."
"I never said we were not. What I do say is that His Grace is completely unaware of our existence." Audra didn't add that if this duke meant to involve them in a foolish round of balls and dinner parties, she was content to remain unknown.
Cecily, however, looked quite crestfallen. "There must be some way of obtaining an introduction," she urged.
"I suppose I could call at the castle and leave my card."
"Oh, no, Audra, you couldn't. A single lady calling upon a gentleman. It simply isn't done."
"Of course, it isn't. Do credit me with some notions of propriety, you goose. I was only funning you."
Cecily glared at her, and Audra sighed. With all the grown-up airs she had acquired, Cecily seemed to have entirely lost her sense of humor. Audra tried to recall if at seventeen she had taken everything so deathly serious.
Her brow puckered in thought, after a moment, Cecily asked, "Why can't Uncle Matthew wait upon the duke? I believe he would if you asked him to, Audra."
"Oh, Cecily," Audra said reprovingly and the girl had the grace to blush. The Reverend Matthew Arthur Masters, who was actually Audra's great-uncle, was pushing ninety and rarely ever went into company these days.
"Then I do wish Mama would come home now," Cecily fretted.
Audra tensed as she always did at any mention of their mother. Lady Arabella, was currently traveling through Naples with her fifth husband, on an extended bridal tour. So extended, in fact, Mama had not been home in over two years. And even if she had, Audra thought cynically, Lady Arabella would not have been the least use to either one of her daughters. She was too caught up with her own amours. But as Cecily had yet to suffer the same disillusionment with their erratic parent, Audra held her tongue.
Instead, she said, "Missing one ball is not the end of the world, especially this one. I have told you His Grace is likely a most disagreeable man." Audra spoke with a marked authority, although she had only once ever set eyes upon His Grace and that had been a mere glimpse obtained six years ago when she had been fortunate enough to attend the York Races. But she yet retained an impression of a tall, dark-complexioned man with massive shoulders, his thick black brows drawn together in a perpetual scowl.
But Cecily could not be brought to believe that an eligible duke could be other than handsome and charming, the ball to be held at the castle other than a glittering event. The girl's shoulders drooped.
"Never mind, Cecily," she tried to comfort, settling back with her book. "We have other things to look forward to. The strolling players will be returning to Haworth next month, and there is going to be a horse auction at the fair."
To Audra's astonishment, her sister burst into tears. "Oh, Audra, you never understand anything! This place is so h-horridly dull. That ball was the only thing that . . . oh, if I wasn't going to London for my come-out next spring, I-I should simply want to d-die." With a great sob, she stood up and rushed toward the door.
"Cecily! For heaven's sake—" Audra began, but her sister had already fled from the room. Audra half started to go after her, but she knew it would do no good. She was a poor hand at consoling Cecily these days. Telling her such bracing things as not to be a widgeon and threatening to dash cold water over her head never seemed to serve the purpose.
"Oh, hang it all. She'll get over it," Audra muttered, flouncing back against the cushions. Cecily's maid would cosset her with cool cloths to the brow and cups of tea, then that would be the end of the matter.
Thus assuring herself, Audra tried to resume her place in the book. But even in the depths of the dungeon at Torquilstone Castle, Ivanhoe in his most dire peril yet, Cecily's unhappy face swam between Audra and the pages. When the bold knight should have been shouting defiance at his enemies, instead he seemed to be mewing, "I simply want to die."
After spending ten minutes trying to read the same paragraph, Audra slammed the book shut and wished that the Duke of Raeburn had sunk into the sea before returning home to cut up their peace at Meadow Lane Lodge.
But she was too honest to entirely blame the present difficulty with Cecily upon the duke. Cecily had been discontent with life at Meadow Lane before Raeburn's return; perhaps even from the moment she had joined Audra there three months ago.
“It is so horridly dull here.”
Audra realized Cecily had spoken those words in pique, and she should ignore them. But the remark hurt all the same. Audra had worked very hard to establish a snug, agreeable home for Cecily when the girl should have finished her schooling. It had never occurred to her that Cecily would dislike Meadow Lane. From the time Audra had first taken the lease, she had found the property perfect, near enough to her Uncle Matthew of whom she was fond, far enough away from other interfering relatives who found it shocking that a spinster should live alone.
Of course, the black-and-white timber lodge was small, having been no more than a hunting retreat. Yet Audra liked the deep masculine tone of the paneled walls. She had scattered about ruby red rugs and hung bright chintz curtains, bringing warmth and light, rendering the house cozy. Here she had enough room for her horses, her dogs and her library. What more could one want?
A companion to share it with, someone whose interests matched her own. The thought came unbidden, but as ever Audra was quick to reject it. She had long ago given up conjuring masculine images in the dark of her room, faces with sympathetic eyes and understanding smiles. And if occasionally she was beset by a peculiar feeling of melancholy or emptiness, she had only to pluck a book from her shelves and bury herself within the pages.
She had been foolish to hope that Cecily would likewise be content with such a reclusive existence. Audra tried to understand, knowing that she was the oddity. Most young women naturally craved the same things Cecily did: society, waltzing balls, handsome suitors.
Perhaps what rendered Audra so frequently irritable and impatient was the realization that she could not give Cecily all those things. Muffin was counting so much upon a London Season. Audra had not as yet found the courage to tell her that she was doomed to disappointment. There would be no coming out for Cecily next Season or perhaps any other. It was not a question of funds, Cecily had inherited a respectable portion and Audra was a considerable heiress in her own right. Audra had to allow her mother that much. Lady Arabella had never had thrown her cap over the windmill for a poor man.
The difficulty with Cecily's coming out lay in finding a respectable matron to present her. Audra placed no dependence upon Mama returning to assume the responsibility. The only other likely candidate was Mama's sister. But Aunt Saunders had quite washed her hands of her nieces after the debacle of Audra's own presentation. Audra knew she had been a most reluctant debutante and very difficult, as gawky as a wild colt with her tongue as unbridled as her gait.
When asked her opinion of Almack's, she had replied that she found it very like Tattersall's, only that she thought the horses derived a great deal more amusement at being auctioned off to the highest bidder. Unfortunately, the remark had been overheard by Lady Sefton, one of the all-powerful patronesses of Almack's, resulting in Audra's being denied admittance to those hallowed walls.
Aunt Saunders had been furious. Never had any protégé of
hers been refused vouchers. After stigmatizing Audra as a "devil's daughter" in the most icily well bred accents, she had sent her packing and had never spoken to her again, a circumstance Audra had never regretted until now.
That had been over seven years ago, and her aunt still seemed to be holding a grudge. Shortly after Cecily's return from school, Audra had swallowed her pride and had written a letter upon Cecily's behalf, pleading with her aunt to present Cecily the following spring. Aunt Saunders had not even deigned to reply.
Audra did not know what more she could do. She had never found the charge of her sister a burden before, but she had to admit it had been much easier looking after Cecily when all her hurts could be healed with sticking plaster, all her desires satisfied by an extra cake at teatime.
"You grew up entirely too fast, Muffin," Audra said with a melancholy sigh. But there was no use dwelling on that or she would end by becoming as blue-deviled as Cecily.
Reopening her book, she made one more effort to seek solace as she always did and put the recent frustrating scene with Cecily out of her mind. But she met with no more success than before, being interrupted this time by her housekeeper.
The dour Mrs. McGuiness thrust her head inside the parlor to announce that one of Miss Cecily's suitors, "that there Mr. Gilmore," had stopped by with some posies for her.
Audra grimaced. Until Cecily's arrival, she had never realized so many callow youths inhabited the county.
"Tell him Miss Cecily is indisposed," Audra replied.
"Very good, Miss Audra." Before ducking out again, the housekeeper added, "You might also want to know Jack Coachman said he saw Miss Cecily's dog running off, heading for Raeburn's Wood."
"Jack Coachman needs spectacles. Miss Cecily's dog is right over—" Audra began to point toward the settee, but froze. The settee was empty.
Mrs. McGuiness clicked her tongue with the usual relish she seemed to take in any impending disaster. "Miss Cecily will be that upset," she predicted with dark satisfaction before bustling off to dispose of the suitor.