How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

Tamsin leaned her head back, feet swinging. “I will say this subterfuge business is surprisingly dull.”

Persephone jumped. She’d nearly forgotten where she was.

Tamsin slid Meg a sideways glance. “And Meg has eaten all of the biscuits.”

Meg did not look up from her novel. She had embroidered small red birds all over her dress, especially along the hem where it threatened to fray. “The crumbs on your dress prove otherwise.”

“I was hoping someone would give me a pistol,” Tamsin added, wistfully.

Priya snorted.

“And oversight,” Tamsin continued, pointedly. She pulled a small pistol out of her reticule. “One I rectified immediately.”

Meg did look up at that. “Try not to shoot off your own foot.”

Tamsin rolled her eyes. “I daresay I’m a better shot than that footman currently traipsing through the foxgloves. Father started taking me hunting when I was in pigtails.”

Meg nodded. “That’s true.”

Tamsin sat back, mollified. No one mentioned that her father had not taken her anywhere since he married Lady Chester, the summer Tamsin turned thirteen. Tamsin, being Tamsin, had kept practicing. Hoping.

“There.” Persephone wiped her hands on her work apron. “That should do it. It will need to be fired and then to sit awhile. But it will be ready by tomorrow evening.”

“Just in time for the opening ball,” Priya murmured.

“Finally,” Tamsin said. “A ball with the promise of some excitement.”

The first morningof Little Barrow Antiquarian Festival dawned cloudy and wet, because this was England, after all, not Egypt. Even a duke could not control the weather. But it hardly signified as the day started with lectures located inside several buildings well stocked with carafes of tea and towers of elegant sugar biscuits in the shape of pyramids and Roman columns. Excitement thrummed through Persephone, eclipsing all other worries, if only for a moment.

Men gathered, removing their tall-crowned hats and ladies slipped between them in pelisses trimmed with braid. The duke sat in the front, nodding and smiling and clearly enjoying the spectacle. A footman stood nearby, ready to bring him refreshments. The duke had been very clear that all women, from the dairymaid to the dowager countess, should be admitted to all of the events, should have they have even a modicum of interest. The baker’s wife sat in a chair in her best dress, having made so many pastries and cookies in the shapes of ancient buildings that Persephone now considered her an architectural expert. This morning’s new display of the Parthenon had been carefully carried inside the hall to be admired by all and sundry. Pride stained her cheeks red.

“You’ve done well,” Meg said.

Persephone surreptitiously wiped her hands on her dress. “I hope so.” She could have done without the heads turning in their direction, and the whispering. But it was worth it.

“They are impressed with what you’ve accomplished here,” Conall murmured, stepping up behind her. He bowed to Meg. “Lady Meg.” When he bowed to Persephone his eyes glinted wickedly. She felt it like a streak of heat running down the back of her legs.

She cleared her throat. “Lord Northwyck.”

His eyes laughed at her. She narrowed hers back at him. “You look fetching as always, love.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He turned his head suddenly, focused on the trio of ladies on the front step: Lady Dorcas, Lady Louisa, Miss Richardson. Rain pattered softly on the street behind them. “Just the ladies I wanted to see,” he said under his breath.

Persephone blinked. “Really?”

He filled the doorway, suddenly imposing. There was none of the carefree charm he usually showed in public. “Ladies, I regret to inform you that the lecture hall is full.”

Lady Dorcas drew herself up. “I beg your pardon?” The flowers on her bonnet bobbed indignantly.

“Lady Persephone has done such an admirable job that there are simply no spots left.”

“Conall,” Persephone murmured but he ignored her.

Meg nudged her gleefully. “Oh, let him.”

“Do you know who I am?” Lady Dorcas asked sharply.