How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

She blinked. “I did not.”

“You snored a little too.”

“I did not!”

He grinned and it was the grin of a well-pleased man who had been able to forget they were hunting a possible murderer, if only for the length of a carriage ride from village to country house. “Come on,” he said, leaning back as John opened the door. She slipped her shoes back on though her feet protested. “They’ll have a proper meal waiting for you inside.”

She curled her hand around the handle of the picnic basket. “I want this meal,” she said. He’d brought it for her. She would take cheese and hand pies and currant buns over goose in cream sauce with asparagus from the hothouse or the rarest of pineapples. No insult to the duke’s chef. She didn’t want blancmange set in a mold shaped like a peacock. She wanted this.

“As you like,” Conall said when she tightened her hold as if he might take the simple feast away. “But let me carry it up for you.”

“I can manage.”

“Percy, let me help. I don’t know anything about the pyramids or how to catalogue Greek marbles, but I can do this.”

She relinquished her hold and stepped down onto the gravel drive. The house bustled, stableboys ran back and forth to the barn as guests arrived from the village, more guests strolled in the last of the sunlight and yet more shared tea in the drawing room. Mrs. Hastings rushed past with a basket of beeswax candles, followed by several housemaids with armfuls of fresh flowers or tea trays for the bedrooms. Conall led the way between throng, Persephone behind him. She wanted only a meal and a moment of quiet before the preparations for the ball truly got underway. Conall left the basket inside her door and bowed. “Until tonight.”

Something about the way he said it made her feel like blushing.

She wished she could think of a reason he might want to stay engaged after they found the traitor out. But a girl like her did not become a marchioness. She might be an earl’s daughter, but she was hardly trained for regular household management. She knew how to make a replica of a Grecian urn, but little about the kind of social navigation the wife of a marquess needed to know. No one would accept a supper invitation from her, even if she wished to issue one. And truthfully, she’d rather be digging in the fields.

“We’ve been through this before, Percy,” she muttered to herself. “Don’t be a ninny.”

She ate more cheese than anyone ought to and three currant buns with icing and felt better equipped to deal with the evening. The duke had already expressly forbidden her to plead a headache or fatigue. She was to attend and dance and flirt like a lady who knew how to do those things effortlessly.

Even if she didn’t feel like one.

She did feel warmth though, lingering in her cheeks and her belly, from the way Conall had turned Lady Dorcas and the others away, from the way he noticed when she was tired or hungry and always seem to have the remedy on hand. She was beginning to look for him every time she entered a room, to wonder if he was playing the violin when he wasn’t there, to smile when he caught her eye from across the room and winked.

It would be hard to say goodbye.

“Stop it,” she added, since she didn’t seem to be listening to her own earlier scolding. She had her grandmother, her friends, the duke, a lovely house and a full larder. She had more blessings than most. It wouldn’t do to sulk.

Sarah helped get her into an ivory gown with a thin burgundy mesh overdress. She’d added a bright pink ribbon under her breasts and pink flowers in her dark hair, to make her grandmother happy and to save herself from yellow or orange festoons. Her gloves were the same pink and reached to her elbows, tied with little white bows.

“Oh, you do look fine, my lady,” Sarah said.

“Thank you, Sarah.”

Persephone met her grandmother in the hall. She wore a dress that resembled nothing so much as limes and champagne, al brightness and lace froth. Her wig was the same green, fresh as spring. She’d wrapped silk leaves and flowers around her cane. Persephone hugged her fondly. “You look like springtime.”

Lady Blackwell smiled. “Thank you, dear. You look very well, yourself. I do like that pink ribbon.” She looked askance at John, stationed between their doors. “This fellow is always outside our door.”

Persephone met John’s gaze quickly. “Yes, Grandmaman. In case you need anything.”

Her grandmother snorted. “He’s here because Henry’s troubles have found us.”

Persephone blinked. “Oh. Um.” Clearly, she would not have made a brilliant spy. She couldn’t fool her own grandmother.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m old, Percy, I’m not stupid.”

“I’ve never thought that!”

“I know.” She patted her hand. “You’re a good girl. Now, I expect you to dance and make merry. Henry won’t be helped by your hiding behind the potted plants. And you have a fiancé, now.”

“Yes, Grandmaman.”

She pursed her lips at John, in his dark livery. “Young man, you could do with some brightening up. Have you considered a red ribbon for your hair?”

John looked decidedly nonplussed.

“Or around the buckles of your shoes?”

“I don’t think the duke allows trimming of the livery,” Persephone jumped in. John looked relieved. Possibly. For a man with so few facial expressions, it was difficult to tell. But she was nearly positive the mention of a red ribbon had caused a tick at the corner of his left eye.

“Hmph,” her grandmother said. “I shall talk to him about that.”