As if summoned by his uncle’s pessimism, Percy suddenly straightened in his chair, his eyes bright with fresh inspiration. “Uncle, what if I were to compose a small verse about the noble art of conversation itself? Something to demonstrate my refined sensibilities and perhaps share with potential friends to show them the depth of my?—”
“Absolutely not,” Ewan said firmly, holding up a hand to stop him. “Under no circumstances are you to write poetry about anything or anyone we encounter in London society.”
“But surely a tasteful quatrain about the music of discourse, the symphony of?—”
“Percy,” Ralph interrupted, still grinning but with a note of genuine sympathy, “your uncle is trying to save you from social ruin. Perhaps listen to the man who’s managed to navigate society for years without once comparing a dowager to a woodland nymph or describing someone’s cravat as havingthe beauty of morning mist kissed by dawn’s first light.”
“You heard about that?” Percy asked, looking slightly embarrassed.
“Word travels fast in London, especially when it involves comparing elderly lords to Greek gods,” the Marquess replied. “The betting books at three different clubs now have odds on your next poetic comparison.”
Percy deflated slightly. “I suppose you’re right. It’s just so difficult to express oneself in ordinary terms when one’s soul yearns for beauty and meaning in every interaction.”
Ewan felt a familiar mixture of exasperation and affection for his nephew. Percy’s heart was in the right place, but his execution left much to be desired.
“Right then,” he said with grim determination. “We’re going to practice basic conversation until you can manage five minutes without mentioning mythology, poetry, or the ‘luminous quality’ of anyone’s anything. Ralph, you’re going to pretend to be Lord Pemberton again.”
“With pleasure,” Ralph said, affecting a pompous air and straightening his shoulders. “Good afternoon, Lord Stonehall. Lovely weather we’re having, wouldn’t you say?”
Percy opened his mouth, clearly preparing to launch into a soliloquy about nature’s splendor, then caught his uncle’s warning glare. He took a deep breath.
“Yes,” he said carefully, as if the word might explode if spoken too enthusiastically. “Quite… pleasant. The sun is… shining.”
“Very good!” Ralph encouraged. “And what are your plans for this evening?”
“I plan to attend Lady Worthington’s soirée and… engage in appropriate social discourse?”
Ewan felt a small surge of hope. Perhaps there was reason for optimism after all.
But that did not change the fact that it was going to be a very long afternoon indeed.
CHAPTER 11
“Samantha, my dear girl!” Uncle William’s voice boomed across the drawing room as she entered their London townhouse. “You look absolutely radiant. Marriage certainly agrees with you.”
“Uncle William,” Samantha replied, moving to embrace her portly uncle with genuine affection. “How wonderful to see you. I trust your business matters are proceeding well?”
“Indeed they are, though terribly dull stuff. Investments and property management. Nothing that would interest you ladies.” He gestured toward the settee where Jane sat, her blonde hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows. “Jane has been positively vibrating with excitement since we learned of your arrival in London.”
“Sister!” Jane leaped to her feet, nearly knocking over a delicate porcelain figurine in her haste. “Oh, how I’ve missed you! You must tell me everything—absolutely everything—about married life and Valemont Hall and your duke.”
“My duke?” Samantha raised an eyebrow, settling beside her sister. “He’s hardly mine in any meaningful sense.”
“Nonsense,” Jane declared, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “He married you, didn’t he? That makes him yours by law, if nothing else.”
Uncle William cleared his throat diplomatically. “Perhaps you girls would enjoy a promenade in the park? The weather is quite pleasant, and I have several tedious meetings to attend this afternoon.”
“Oh yes!” Jane clapped her hands together. “We could walk through Hyde Park and catch up properly. Without stuffy drawing rooms and proper behavior.”
“Jane,” Samantha warned, though she couldn’t suppress a smile at her sister’s enthusiasm.
“What? I merely meant we could speak more freely outdoors. Come, Samantha. I’m positively bursting with curiosity.”
Half an hour later, the sisters strolled arm in arm through the tree-lined paths of Hyde Park, Mary following at a discrete distance. The autumn air was crisp and invigorating, and Samantha found herself relaxing for the first time since arriving in London.
“Now then,” Jane said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “you must tell me everything. How are you finding married life? Is His Grace terribly romantic? Does he send you flowers and write you poetry?”
“Jane, please,” Samantha protested, her cheeks warming. “Marriage isn’t like the novels you read.”
