“If you might show me where the more shocking volumes are kept, Iwould be most appreciative,” Lady Cecily said, her inflection sheepish, a tinge of pink appearing in her cheeks. “I do feel more comfortable, you understand, asking another woman rather than the bookseller himself.”
Despite herself, an incredulous laugh reeled up Charity’s throat. “You do realize that if you wish to purchase such a book, youwillhave to show it to him?”
“Then might I beg you to do it for me?” Lightly, Lady Cecily reached out to touch Charity’s hand, her blush deepening. “I fear I could not look him in the eye.”
It carried with it a sense of camaraderie, of sisterhood—between two women who could not possibly be more dissimilar to one another. But it had been rendered in such earnest hopefulness that it was an impossible request to refuse, and so Charity found herself spending the next hour of her time in assisting the woman who would one day become her husband’s wife.
∞∞∞
“I hate her,” Charity declared, flouncing down upon the sofa in Diana’s drawing room in a puff of vibrant scarlet skirts after her impassioned recitation of her encounter with Lady Cecily.
“You do not,” Lydia scolded, shaking her head in exasperation.
“I do!” Charity insisted in a petulant whine, casting one arm over her eyes with a dramatic flair to rival any actor within Lydia’s theatre troupe.
“What reason could you have to hate her?” Emma inquired over the rim of her tea cup, a furrow of perplexity creasing her brow. “Have you left something out which would otherwise validate it? Was she cruel? Spiteful? Arrogant?”
“No,” Charity said morosely. “She was perfectly lovely and amiable to the last, and I loathe her with every fiber of my being.” She heaved a violent sigh, sinking into her seat. “Why couldn’t she have had a—a hooked nose, or a hunched back? Atleasta haughty disposition or condescending air. Is it too much to ask for one teeny tiny little flaw? How is it fair to the rest of us insignificant mortals that she should be prettyandkind?” And clever and interesting, if Anthony was to be believed in his assessment.
“Oh, come,” Diana said, the threat of a laugh in her voice attesting to the fact that she had been much amused by Charity’sdiscontent. “I am certain that Lady Cecily has got her flaws. Everyone has.”
“None which I could find,” Charity snipped back. “She’s a damned paragonof womanhood, and I am—”
“Jealous,” Phoebe pronounced blandly, as she plunked a lump of sugar into her tea.
Charity bolted upright, her mouth agape in shock. “Why, you insufferable harpy,” she cast out. “You take that back at once!”
“Oh, fine, then,” Phoebe said. “I retract my accusation.” She let a moment draw out in a tense silence as she stirred. “You are jealousandunnecessarily petty about it,” she said at last.
“Petty! Is it truly so very petty of me to wish to find some smallfault with the woman?”
“Do you know,” Diana said, touching the point of her index finger to her chin. “I think it is, rather.”
Lydia clucked her agreement, exchanging a knowing glance with Emma.
“Oh, don’t misunderstand me,” Phoebe said, biting into a biscuit. “Your pettiness is one of the things I love best about you. I cannot imagine having shining examples of perfection for friends; it would be tedious in the extreme. A woman ought to have a few flaws, just to make life interesting.”
Charity folded her arms over her chest in a sullen display of her ill temper. “Shehasn’t got any.”
“Jealous,” Phoebe sang out again. “And besides, I’m certain you’re wrong. One can be kind and beautiful and still have flaws. Perhaps she has the singing voice of a toad,” she posited.
“She doesn’t,” Diana chirped, smiling brightly. “Actually, her singing voice is quite lovely.”
“Oh, naturally it is,” Charity said, with a roll of her eyes.
“Well, then,” Lydia suggested, a cunning sparkle in her green eyes, “perhaps she has the tendency to talk too much? Or to laugh too loudly? Perhaps she brays like a donkey.”
“No, not at all,” Emma said. “In fact, she is a scintillating conversationalist and an avid listener. And her laugh—”
“I take your meaning!” Charity exclaimed with a wild gesticulation of her hands. “She is utterly perfect in every conceivable regard; the epitome of female excellence. A candidate for sainthood!”
“And you arejealous,” Phoebe reiterated needlessly. “Perhaps you ought to examine why that might be.”
Charity slid deeper into her seat with a brooding sigh, pressing the heelsof her hands to her eyes. There was a terrible suspicion there, heavy as lead in her chest. It had started off small, just a tiny pellet. And it had grown slowly, a bit at a time—until she had come face-to-face with Lady Cecily. Shewasjealous. Jealous of this woman, so much more suitable than she could ever hope to be, who would one day become Anthony’s wife. She had even, however obliquely, alluded to a suitor from whom she expected soon to receive a proposal of marriage.
But at this moment, Anthony washerhusband. She had developed something more than mere friendship for him, more than simple affection. And it would never matter, because he could never truly be hers. He knew, every bit as much as she did, that a duke could not have a courtesan for a wife.
Anthony wanted love in his marriage. When he dedicated himself to Lady Cecily, it would be completely. There would be no illicit love affair, no mistress—not even her. The worst of it was that she had chosen Lady Cecily herself, selected her own perfect replacement. He deserved someone like her; someone kind and gentle, someone warm and genial and not given over to such petty jealousies. Someone who would keep him entertained, and be a balm to the weary soul he had shown to so few, and ease him ably into the position within society he now occupied.
