How to Marry a Duke (A Cinderella Society 2)

Chapter Four

They found Tamsin exactly where they expected to: in the bushes.

“Took you long enough,” she said, shifting to make room for them. There were already leaves tangled in the pearl pins shining in her hair. The sky was dark and low enough to touch. The mud underfoot had a decidedly frozen quality. “It’s bloody cold out here.”

“And pokey,” Meg added, inching forward so that the thorns would stop scratching her. She didn’t want to catch the embroidery on her dress either. It would take forever to mend. “Why do they always pick the parlor near the roses?”

“We might have to convince the duke to plant some larkspur,” Tamsin agreed. “Something soft at least.” She strained to peer through the window in front of them. It was cracked open just a few inches, enough to hear what was happening on the other side of the glass. Tamsin had run through all of the ground floor rooms before the ball started, cracking open windows and moving curtains. She’d done a fine job, as usual. “Although, I’m still not sure why we don’t just tell him about this. He’d put an end to it in a heartbeat. And I wouldn’t be shivering so hard my teeth just knocked together.”

“We wouldn’t have the advantage then,” Priya pointed out. She passed Tamsin the end of her shawl, laying it across the three of them. The soft wool took the chill out of the cold garden, dressed mostly in frost instead of flowers. “And we’d never hear what they have to say.”

“Or know who holds the wager purse,” Meg added. She might have rubbed her palms together like a storybook villain if she weren’t precariously perched on a stone. “And I mean to have it this year.”

“This is our year,” Tamsin agreed, supportively. “I can feel it.”

The parlor glowed with lamplight, crowded with the moving shadows of a congregation of eligible unmarried men of good fortune. Or ancient ancestral titles. Occasionally both. Wine glasses clinked together, and loud laughter punctuated every statement. It was easy enough to hear every word, they were hardly subtle. And they weren’t particularly kind as they discussed the duke’s goddaughters. They never were. But it was helpful to know what they really thought. More than one offer of marriage had been rejected on the basis of this night’s work.

Meg was most offended that the portraits she’d had painted for the duke were being used like advertisements in a horse magazine. Or cows, they may as well have been purchasing cows. This one is pretty; this one has good teeth. This one might not produce milk.

Those paintings had been gifts. And last year, some drunken sot had spilled brandy all over Lady Portia. If it happened again, Meg made no promises that she wouldn’t launch herself through the window. She’d rather like to see the expressions on their faces.

She’d definitely paint that.

She might even send it to the Royal Exhibition.

“Lady Clara,” shouted a man as he placed his bet down in front of a portrait. “Ten pounds she remains a spinster by the next ball.”

“Only an idiot would take that bet,” came the laughing reply. “That one’s all vinegar.”

“Good dowry though.”

“She’d have to have a king’s ransom. She’d talk about etiquette in her own marriage bed. Who fancies that?”

“I don’t know, I like a naughty governess.”

“Oh, honestly,” Priya snapped. She paused. “They’re not wrong,” she added reluctantly when Tamsin snorted. It had to be said that Lady Clara was not an easy companion. She was notorious for preferring etiquette to all things. She noticed every social infraction. And as Tamsin flouted the rules at every opportunity, it made for an uneasy friendship at best. “Still, I hope they choke on every word.”

“Lady Priya is mildly terrifying,” someone said. “I shouldn’t like my chances.”

Beside her, Priya smiled smugly. “Bloody right.”

Every year, it was the same. Sometime during the ball, a group of gentlemen snuck off to place their wagers. They imagined futures bought and sold, told ribald jokes, and placed enormous bets on the matrimonial chances of each Cinderella.

It was deeply irritating.

But educational.

Also, not terribly soothing to the ego.

“Meg Swift.”

She winced at her name.

“Same odds as last year. Still no dowry.”

“We will crown her Queen of the Ape-leaders!”

“That tosspot,” Tamsin muttered.